You Don't Know What You Have Until It's Gone
by MelodyOfSong526
Summary: Scarlett O'Hara lost everything and everyone she loved. All that remains are carcasses of their former selves or decaying bodies lying beneath the soil. This depression leads her to find solace in a place which would officially ruin her reputation forever. Will it all be worth it? Or would she remain unhappy for the remainder of her life?
1. Prologue

**So, I've been reading GWTW FF for awhile now. After much pondering, I've decided to risk it and attempt to write GWTW FF. I finished reading and seeing GWTW almost 2 months ago. I fell in love with both the book and movie. Now, I am an obsessed fan.  
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**So this idea popped into my head yesterday and I finished the final draft just now. I apologize for any kind of mistakes. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GWTW  
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><p>Prologue<p>

Out of all the horrible things that she could _ever _do, Scarlett O'Hara Hamilton Kennedy Butler _never _thought that she would ever stoop down this low.

After _he _had left her, Scarlett didn't know what to do with her life. She had never realized in all their years together—before _and _after they were married—that she had depended on him for support. His constant assistance and admiration was overwhelming—had she been blind to it all this time?

Oh, how she missed him! There was not a day that her thoughts didn't wander to him. The feel of his strong arms around her tiny waist as he murmured sweet nothings into her ear; his breath smelling of brandy and cigars; those hot, sweet lips trailing over her skin…

_No. _ She must not think of him now. Not now, not ever. Especially when she had work to do.

Depressed, she had found shelter and solace in one of the most masculine enticing places on earth:

A sporting house.

But it wasn't just _any _sporting house. No, for it belonged to none other than Atlanta's most despised woman:

Belle Watling.

Scarlett remembered the afternoon when she had chosen to commit the remainder of her life to the career. A cold wind had tossed her thick locks all around despite the black crêpe bonnet that was tightly tied at her chin. She had felt pebbles cut through her thin slippers; every step had felt like walking on fragments of broken glass. A hooded figure in a sky-blue, velvet cloak had seen her and gently guided her towards the back entrance of the sporting house.

The stench of alcohol and smoke immediately hit Scarlett as soon as she stepped inside. She looked around in disgust, and tried to ignore the disdainful looks many of the males were giving her. The whores were heavily equipped with rouge and were, well, doing very unladylike things to the males…

Quietly, the figure led her upstairs to a private room. The stranger slipped of a hood to reveal Belle's tangle of fire-red curls.

"Now you's best stay here, Scarlett. This is Rhett's room, after all. Treat it well. If you don't, well, your husband'll be furious at the two of us."

She smiled and gave Scarlett a tiny golden key. Then, she turned on her heel and walked back to her position behind the wooden bar.

Trembling, Scarlett had used the key to open the polished cherry door. As it clicked, she began to feel her heart racing and her hands began to feel clammy. Wasn't it wrong to be entering his room? It was unladylike to invade one's privacy, wasn't it?

_Oh fiddle-dee-dee, I'm not going to find anything bad. I'm turning into a ninny for no reason, _she thought to herself. Besides, she wasn't ever a lady to begin with. She smiled slightly as she remembered the day she made her first encounter with Rhett in the Twelve Oaks library…

Sighing, she creaked the door open and gasped at the sight before her.

The room itself was as large as his room in their Atlanta mansion. Angry blotches of brown covered the powder-white walls. Lying on the floor were broken pieces of glass. An empty decanter stood on a tray that was left on the porcelain bedside table. Three crystal shot glasses were discarded on it.

A king size bed in the left hand corner looked to be in bad shape; the multiple layers of fabric seemed to be splayed everywhere on the mattress. The linen was filthy and grimy; they clearly had not been changed in some time.

But what sparked Scarlett's interest the most was the large, ovular desk placed in the back of the room near the massive window. Cautiously, she had picked her way through the mess—always avoiding the glaring shards of glass that littered the wood-paneled floor. Finally, she had reached the farthest right hand corner where the desk was located. As she neared it, she saw portraits and letters all stacked into piles. Tentatively, she lifted a frame no bigger than half a loaf of bread. She gasped as she saw the girl.

Her flowing chocolate hair was pulled back with a silk royal blue ribbon that matched her bright eyes. She was wearing a crisp, white ruffled dress. Her features were smooth and resembled the finest porcelain; she was merely a child, her baby fat puffing her tiny cheeks. Oh, her precious Bonnie! Tears began to well up in her eyes as she recalled how much Rhett loved their child. How very happy he was when she had given him a child! She must not think of those things. The thoughts would drive her mad. Quickly, she wiped the salty tears away and glanced at the other portraits.

There were many, but none seemed familiar to her. And then she stopped her rifling as her eyes landed on a portrait lying on the ground. She recognized the girl, for it was almost as if looking at a reflection. But she looked younger and more carefree…

A letter addressed to Belle lied on the desk. After contemplating her options for awhile, she snatched it and placed it inside her basque. Then, she fled the room and bolted home.

Something had overcome her that day. Belle had sent a telegram to Scarlett that very same day, stating that she was welcome to come through the back entrance to the sporting house at any time. That was when Scarlett had found herself at the most depressed state of mind. Without even fully thinking about it, she knew what she had to do.

After reading Rhett's letter to Belle, what other choice did she have? Oh yes, she would become even more despised in Atlanta than she already was, but what did it matter? There was nothing more she could do for herself. If Rhett didn't love her, then there was no point in picking her life away. She might as well waste the rest of her life doing unladylike actions instead of waiting for a hopeless miracle that Rhett would come back to her.

She had to become a prostitute.

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><p><strong>Okay, so before you review, I just wanna clear up the fact that I do not believe Scarlett would ever really become a prostitute. She's not that desperate, but I just wanted to try this out. Also, I do not like cursing, so I will be copying and pasting any cuss words. <strong>

**Feel free to review! Next chapter coming soon!  
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	2. Chapter 1

**I didn't expect to get this kind of response from uploading a GWTW FF! Thank you so much! I'm glad that you've accepted me into the community! I've never gotten this kind of response in a span of 3 days! Not in awhile, anyway, lol. **

**Shout-out to HelenSES, aka one of my FAVORITE GWTW AUTHORS ATM. Thanks so much for your review! Go check out her FF "Six Months Later". Thanks ScarlettLovesRhett for your kind words! Remind me to start reading one of your many FFs. And thank you to Melody-Rose-20 for this quote: "They're too much alike to ever be able to exist without each other." Could not agree more. And Emma0514, thank you for being my VERY FIRST REVIEWER. I always love little things like that. xo  
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**Also, I forgot to add this in the A/N for the prologue, I finished reading "Scarlett" by Alexandra Ripley. Um...It's interesting...But I don't feel like it's a book for me to reread...  
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**I hope I did okay with this chapter...Hope you like it!  
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**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GWTW  
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><p>Chapter 1<p>

Belle was quite surprised when Scarlett had delivered the news to her the following day.

The two were sitting in Rhett's private room. It had been only yesterday when Scarlett had first seen the room. Belle noticed that her posture was very straight and rigid; she looked to be all business.

"Miz Butler, have you gone mad? You's know it won't be somethin' people will like. 'specially since is is Atlanta townsfolk we's talkin' 'bout."

"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, I don't care what they think anymore. I might as well since-"

Suddenly, her vibrant orbs began to pale as she stared off into space. Before Belle could question the other woman about it, her eyes ignited again and she began firing questions at Belle.

"How often will I have to work? Should I send Wade and Ella elsewhere? Is there a specific kind of gown that I need to wear?"

Belle raised up a hand to stop Scarlett's rambling.

"Rhett won't be awfully happy 'bout this-"

"I don't care about him. And don't-"

"Miz Butler. With all due respect, you's gonna have to talk 'bout him some time o' another. Now, I don't know what the story is between you and Rhett—oh, for God's sake, don't cringe, you'll be hearing his name an awful lot—so I won't press you 'bout the details, alright?"

Scarlett nodded in response. Her cheeks were crimson. Belle recalled Rhett telling her about the particular trait.

_"Why Belle, she's the most charming woman I've ever met. She's got this lovely blush that rises to her cheeks whenever she's embarrassed or angry. It is quite becoming."_

"Are you sure you want this, Miz Butler? It's not the best life-"

"Well Rhett seems to enjoy-"

"So you are trying to win him back then?"

The other woman laughed darkly.

"Rhett can go to hell for all I care! I haven't got a shred of self-respect anymore. That's why I need this, Belle."

"Miz Butler-"

"I would much prefer if you would just plainly call me Scarlett. None of this 'Miz Butler' business."

"Very well. Scarlett, this life isn't in the least bit becoming or enjoyable. And you's best be ready to be mercilessly thrown around fo' hours. You's also have children to be cared for-"

"I can send them to Tara with one of my maids."

"That'll do. Their mother's new reputation might cause them harassment. I's don't mean to offend you, Scarlett."

"This ain't an easy life, Scarlett."

"Belle, I _want _this. Please."

Belle sighed. She had known from the beginning that she would be relenting to Scarlett's pleading. Rhett had often spoken of her conniving ways.

_"She's unlike any woman I've met, Belle. I can tell you're doubtful, but it's true. She wouldn't ever back down from a fight."_

"Very well, Scarlett. But if I was you. I'd wait at best a few months. You's still in mourning for both Miz Wilkes and Bonnie, yes?"

"I'm sure they would understand." She looked down at the floor and unsuccessfully tried to hide her tears from Belle.

_God bless the woman for staying strong through life_, Belle thought to herself.

"Well, if you're sure…Now we's got some details to iron out."

After an hour, it was thus decided that Scarlett would begin work in precisely one month. Wade and Ella would have to be escorted to Tara for, perhaps, the rest of their lives. Scarlett would have to sell the Atlanta mansion and live in Belle's sporting house. When asked if she would mind staying in Rhett's private room, however, she declined.

"I don't want to think of him for as long as possible."

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><p>When Scarlett left, Belle pondered over the meeting. Surely <em>something<em> had triggered the motive. She decided to forget about it for the moment. It was a matter of lesser importance at the time. For what really appalled Belle was Scarlett's love for Rhett. She could tell that—no matter how much the woman denied it—Scarlett had grown a woman's heart and was undoubtedly missing Rhett. And Rhett must still love Scarlett for that matter as well.

Oh, she hadn't exactly known why Rhett loved Scarlett all those years, but now she understood. Just talking to Scarlett had reminded her of Rhett. Both were stubborn as a thorn; both were cunning business-people.

Belle began to consider looking over that letter from Rhett again. She walked over to the desk. She couldn't find it. She rummaged throughout the room. The letter was nowhere to be found. Perhaps Scarlett had taken it the day before. Yes, that theory made sense. Her mind gradually began to stop whirling…

And then Belle remembered what Rhett had stated in his letter. If Scarlett had read it…

_Oh dear God, no. _ If Scarlett had read the letter, it would explain the sudden urge to become a prostitute. There had to be some other explanation. Unfortunately, Belle could think of none. She should have suspected as much while they were carrying on with their conversation.

What could she do? The damage was done. She knew Scarlett would not willingly give up the letter. Perhaps she would lure her into giving it back? Belle didn't know how to get it back from Scarlett, but she knew that she had to protect the other woman. A sort of acquaintance had suddenly grown between the two, and Belle intended to keep the peace for quite some time. But first, she had to get the letter.

Because contained in that letter, Rhett had spoke of a word that most likely drove Scarlett to tears:

_Divorce._

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><p><strong>I wanted to touch a little bit of the relationship between Rhett and Belle. In this FF, I might just have them have a very good friendship instead of something more. We'll see! Thanks for reading!<br>**


	3. Chapter 2

**Bit too short for my liking...Oh well...I'll start writing the next chapter soon!**

**Little spoiler: the contents of the letter are revealed. I know Melody-Rose-20 had been wondering about it.  
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**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GWTW  
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><p>Chapter 2<p>

Scarlett tilted her head back and skillfully swallowed her fifth glass of brandy.

The things Rhett taught her…

_Damn him._

For a brief moment, she felt the liquid in her stomach begin to bubble. Why had she been so _stupid _as to read that letter? She supposed it was better to know his true feelings rather now than later. She removed the wrinkled letter from her basque and began to read it once again.

_My dearest Belle,_

Belle. My dearest _Belle. _ The name made her blood boil. Although she _did _feel very close to her now, nothing would _ever _ease her resentment towards the fiery woman.

_Forgive me for my abrupt disappearance. I would much rather not burden you with more gossip about my current marital status, but since you have so kindly asked, I will oblige your wishes with a dejected demeanor._

_ As you know, I had fled from Atlanta a few days prior to Mrs. Wilkes' funeral. I'm certain that you are not the only person who has been curiously analyzing my sudden disappearance. Belle, as my long-time friend and business partner, swear to me that this little secret shall remain strictly between us._

Damn him, damn him, _damn him…_

_ What Scarlett sees in that miserable Ashley Wilkes is beyond my extensive reasoning. And for that reason, I have decided to file for a divorce._

That _cad. _ How dare he speak of that sinful word! Especially to _her. _

_Now, Belle, don't start hammering off reasons why I shouldn't have my lawyer gather the necessary paperwork._

How she loathed him! _I'll kill him. _Why must he proclaim such a thing? _Divorce. _ Oh, how _awful _the word sounded!

_She's still hopelessly in love with him. Don't try to contradict me, Belle. I've wasted twelve years of my life admiring her from a distance. In her eyes, Belle, there's always been a sense of longing. She's always wanted something she couldn't have. Even in her adult years, that girlhood crush of hers has never diminished._

Salty tears pricked at her eyes. Only _he _could do this to her. _Oh, yes, Rhett, you've been right all this time! _She wanted to scream it at him.

_On the day of Mrs. Wilkes' death, she ran right into _his _arms. Without any glance at me. Damn it, Belle, that was the last straw. I'm sick of competing for her affection. _

"Oh, Rhett…" she moaned, burying her face in her hands.

_She might as well be a—excuse my language, Belle—low-class whore. _

"I will be one soon, Rhett." She spat venomously.

_Do me a favor, Belle: please take care of her. Lie to her by claiming that I don't love her. Yes, Belle, I'll never stop loving her. But I can't _stand _being around her constant lies. She's a piece of my past that needs to be discarded as soon as possible._

There it was. Her heart started shattering all over again. Not even his statement about his never-ending love for her could heal her wounds.

_Again, I apologize for burdening you with this, Belle. Of all people, you surely don't deserve to hear an old man complaining of his past love life. I _will _try to come visit often. Do save my room at the sporting house for me. I may need to use it during those future visits._

_ Yours truly,_

_ Rhett Butler._

She bit down on her tongue in an attempt to stop the pain and tears.

Unfortunately for her, it didn't work.

_I'll think of it later, I'll think of it later…_

Oh, why did he have to escape in that horrible place? Not that she was any better than him, now. She glanced again at the letter; his elegant, swooping script danced across the parchment like fair ladies at balls.

She angrily poured herself another glass of brandy. Soon, Rhett wouldn't matter. Soon, there would be another man who would love her much more than Rhett ever did…

_Rhett._

God, he was always there in her thoughts. She couldn't help it. She actually _loved _him.

But there was no turning back. No more intoxicating kisses, no more loving embraces…All of that was over now.

And she would play his game.

He didn't want her? So be it. _She _certainly didn't need _him, _not anymore. Although it would hurt her to no end, she would proudly sign the divorce contract. No, he wouldn't win this time. She would not allow it.

Satisfied, she stood up from the table and balanced her brandy in her hand. She decided it would be best to get some air before her lavish house suffocated her.

She walked out of the dining parlor and went to open the door. Before she could turn the handle, however, the door burst open.

She needed to grab a weapon of some kind quickly, because a figure stood in front of her. He was tall and lanky, his face shadowed in the dark. There was a hat perched upon his head. Something was familiar about this man, yet she could not pinpoint it at the moment. He began walking towards her. As she opened her mouth to scream, the stranger closed the distance between them and covered her mouth with his. If she hadn't been in such a drunken state, she wouldn't have been kissing back so feverishly. Instinctively, she knew where things would be heading. But as he started pushing her into the wall, her thoughts gradually began to clear. She recognized the scent of the man before her. He smelled of books and lumber. And the lips felt like honey…

_Oh God, no, it can't be him…_

The glass of brandy dropped out of her hand. Surely it was a mistake! Her mind was just playing tricks on her…

_She's always wanted something she couldn't have. Even in her adult years, that girlhood crush of hers has never diminished…_

Scarlett opened her eyes briefly and saw a flash of golden hair.

…_girlhood crush…never diminished…_

Startled, she pushed Ashley away and ran to the front door.

Only then did she see another man standing on the threshold.

_Heaven forbid…_

A Panama hat was perched on this man's head. He was puffing one of his valuable Cuban cigars lazily. His broad shoulders seemed to ripple under the pressed suit he was sporting.

She was damned. The devil had officially taken her. Her heart thudded wildly as she stared back and forth between the two men.

_Both of them cannot be here. Surely, I'm just dreaming. All of this is a bad dream and soon I'll be waking up in my room…_

Alas, Scarlett knew this was no dream. The brandy began traveling its course throughout her body. She felt nauseous. Before she could flee from the scene, the second man stepped into the house.

"Lovely evening, isn't it, Mrs. Butler?" Rhett drawled, puffing out smoke from his cigar.

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><p><strong>Originally, I wasn't going to have Rhett make an appearance this early in the FF. However, I was thinking about the possibility that he caught Ashley and Scarlett kissing in his own house and I just <em>had<em> to put that in there. Hoped you enjoyed it!  
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**Oh, and this part _"On the day of Mrs. Wilkes' death, she ran right into _his _arms. Without any glance at me.", _I based it on**** the movie. Just saying. :)**


	4. Chapter 3

**Bleh. Not my best. Oh, well. By the way, am I the youngest author in the GWTW FF Community? It feels like it...**

**I _have _seen a lot of reviews for that last chapter that concern Rhett's conflicting emotions for Scarlett. I agree that it's not believable, so I'll toy around with that a bit.  
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**Like the cover? I added the words. xD  
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**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GWTW  
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><p>Chapter 3<p>

She was speechless. All of a sudden, her throat contorted and choked her; the ability to breathe became unbearable and difficult. Her feet froze to the floor; they themselves were quivering under his spell. Her palms were perspiring, each bead of sweat signaling a fresh wave of clamminess. The atmosphere around her started to blur as she gripped the banister for support.

"Good evening to you as well, Mr. Wilkes." Rhett slurred, a bored-like quality dripping from his tongue.

"What on _earth_ are you doing here, Rhett?" Scarlett spat, all of her anger at him spilling out with each syllable.

"Why, I just thought I'd stop by to visit my _dear_ wife and children. Is there a problem with that, my pet?" His eyes were alight with humor, but his voice challenged her.

"Ashley, please leave. Come visit in the morning."

He nodded. Swiftly, he kissed her hand and bowed slightly to Rhett. Clearly, all of them had noticed the faint air of discomfort that lingered in the house. The large area seemed to contribute to the suffocating strain between the unhappy pair. Ashley then fled from the house, most likely grateful to escape the tension-filled mansion.

As soon as Ashley had turned the corner, Rhett slammed the door shut.

"You're drunk, my dear." He began walking towards her.

She felt numb, too numb to remember her anger at him.

In the earlier days of their twelve-year relationship, he had a warmth that emanated from his soul. As the years progressed, more and more tragedy was thrust upon the Butlers'. That former warmth had suddenly grown dark and cold. This frostbite was flowing from him now as he stood in front of her, his eyes judging her every move. He was the predator and she was the prey. There was nowhere for her to hide.

_Damn him._

"I am a bit drunk _myself, _dear, but it seems that you have possibly out-drunken even _me._" He barked a mirthless, bitter laugh.

How dark his eyes had become! She gazed into them, hoping to see a flicker of his former self. The man she had fallen in love with _had _to be there. Somewhere inside of him, there must be-

Nothing.

Not a single trace of that man floated in his orbs.

"You're awfully quiet, my dear. Cat got your tongue?"

She took a shaky breath. There was no time for her to decipher and ponder about his phrase.

"It wasn't what it looked like, Rhett."

"What? Oh, you mean your little, er, rendezvous with your _precious _Ashley?"

"Rhett…"

"What business does he have-"  
>"Rhett!" She looked into his flaring orbs, fury pulsing through her.<p>

"It was _nothing. _And your earlier presumption was right: I _am _a bit drunk."

"Presumption, hm? I didn't think you knew that word." He chuckled.

"There's a lot you don't know about me, you _cad._" Scarlett replied curtly. _How many more days until her life would end…?_

"Perhaps." He smirked.

"Why are you really here, Rhett?"

He sighed. His eyes suddenly changed, a look of—what was it? Gloom?—had filled his eyes. The emotion seemed to fill every crevice in his skin, for soon after she observed this, he had begun to pale very slightly.

"My dear, I know you don't want to hear this-"

"Rhett." She interrupted. "I'll sign the papers."

She glanced at him. Now, there was an expression of utter disbelief and confusion written on his features. It was one of those rare moments when his mysterious mask had slipped.

"Rhett, you win. I'll sign the divorce papers." She struggled forcing the words out, but she must have pulled it off because Rhett suddenly looked cold and indifferent again.

"Very well. We'll be settling it all tomorrow."

"Fine." She brushed past him and began climbing the stairs. What a horrible evening it had been! All she wanted to do now was lose herself in the blackness of sleep.

"Scarlett?"

She turned around.

He walked up the stairs until they stood on the same step. Cautiously, he placed his hands on her waist.

"Allow me one last kiss, love." He muttered.

All of a sudden, his hot lips were on hers. She relished the kiss as he tightened his grip. She rested her hand on one side of his face as she began pulling herself closer to him.

Oh, how she wished things were different! She never wanted their lives to be devoid of each other! Not now, not when all she could feel was his passion. Perhaps she should reconsider her future job as a prostitute. Perhaps Rhett and she would become more civil and cherish each other's company more-

_Divorce. _

The word shot into her mind before she could stop it. _I can think of it tomorrow…_

Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, who was she kidding? Thinking of it tomorrow would do no good. Besides, the paperwork would have to be completed tomorrow. Oh, how she loathed the thought of it!

The kiss began to drown her into a sea of unconsciousness. Reluctantly, she broke away.

"Scarlett…" He began kissing her neck.

She closed her eyes. Oh, how she wanted him to keep holding her like this! Even when she grew to be Aunt Pitty's age! Just the feel of _him…_

"Rhett, we can't…Not now…" She turned away from him as the tears started flowing.

He turned her back around and wiped away the tears with his thumb.

"Goodnight, Rhett." She climbed up the remaining steps and entered her room. Still fully clothed, Scarlett climbed into bed and cried silently into her plush pillow, somehow hoping its warmth and softness would heal her broken heart.

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><p><strong>Too rushed. No me gusta. -_- I have a plan, though, so...Hope you enjoyed!<br>**

**Oh, and I have a bad case of writer's block, so don't be surprised if the next chapter doesn't come out for another 2 weeks. Thanks for sticking with me!  
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	5. Chapter 4

**I noticed that HelenSES's latest chapter and chapter 3 for this story are a bit similar...I did not copy the idea for this FF. Just wanted to clear that up even though it hasn't come up.  
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**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GWTW  
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><p>Chapter 4<p>

She had no idea that hell would be _this _tortuous.

The men were much more…_disgusting_…than she would have thought possible. Not only were some heavily intoxicated, but the smell of their cigars lingered on their breaths as well.

It reminded her too much of _him._

And how it hurt her heart to see so many innocent, shy men in such a place! Men whom she would never have assumed would dare enter the sporting house.

A flash of gold caught her eye. She glanced at the bar. There was Ashley—her lost, poor, broken-hearted, girlhood crush who reminisced and represented the past—at the bar downing a shot of vodka. How broken he had become after Melanie's funeral! The man before her eyes was not the same, had never been the same after fighting in the war. Melanie had been his companion, someone he could lean on when things got too hard. And to think that she herself had once resented Melly, even tried to dispose of her for her own selfish good! Guiltily, she averted her gaze elsewhere.

_Thank God Melanie isn't alive to see him like this._

She winced as a fresh wave of pain prickled her flesh. The source of pain was emanating from a patch of skin that lied over her ribcage. One customer had not been very gentle. There had been various men who had treated her in the same aggressive manner. Others had taken her in a longing sense: some to escape their troubles at home, some to feel something within them stir and awaken once more.

But somehow, with each man that she met, Rhett would float about in her mind. The smallest hint of similarity drove her insane. A slight taste of brandy on their breath or the faint aroma of tobacco tugged at her fragile heartstrings.

However, she _did _have to admit: the salary was more than reasonably acceptable.

The other ladies seemed to have more desperate reasons to work in the horrendous occupation, though.

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><p>One girl named Lucille was a skinny thing with a waist that had to measure less than twenty inches. Her hair was the color of hay while her eyes sparkled a spectacular sapphire. She was only a mere age of eighteen, though one could easily pity her tortuous life story.<p>

After the death of her saint-like mother, her father went mental. He became quite the alcoholic, downing an average of five whiskey shots per day; in addition to a "small" portion of brandy on the occasion. Drunk and reckless, he began to beat his poor daughter with a whip. The girl had understood perfectly well as to why this stranger would go to such measures.

Not only was he never in a peaceful state of mind, but he was also grieving the loss of his wife. How could he not? The woman had been his true love; the love of his life, in fact. When she was confirmed dead, his world instantly shattered. Where light had once shone, dark clouds now lingered heavily. The dresses she had once adorned could only fit her specific shape. Her aroma of fresh rain and sweet flowers had disappeared into the thin air, mingling with the other features of nature. He only had memories of her. Memories of the years gone by; memories that could never occur again. She was gone, and that was that. No living form or incarnation was left of her.

Except for Lucille.

Lucille was the last living link to his late wife. If she was still alive, then his lover would _have _to live as well. Her mother would live inside of her for as long as she lived.

However, so distraught and anguished was the man that he had turned to alcohol as means of coping. And with each sip of poison he consumed, the angrier grew with his wife for leaving him. Soon, all the happiest memories of his existence had become cruel, dark nightmares. So drunken was he with these false feelings that it drove him to destroy ever memoir of the woman. All the love letters were thrown into the fireplace; the dresses were ripped to shreds by the weapon of his bare hands; her rouge had been shaken out of its container and had blended in with the sandy road below the open window; jewels were smashed into bits as he threw them about the house.

But he had still not destroyed ever last possession of hers. For there was still a child in his care, a demon that had lived and thrived in _her _womb.

Therefore, mad with a desire to kill all ghosts of his wife, he began to beat his child. Whenever he could, he would roughly force the girl into a corner and repeatedly brandish his whip. With each snap, a new scar took form and began to bleed. The bloodshed would only deepen his mad hunger. He knew that the harder he hit, the more blood would spurt out. And the more loss of blood meant one step closer to destroying this _thing._ Until his arm hurt from forcing the whip too hard, he would not stop.

It was a continuous procedure that occurred in the household. At first, the girl's cries could be heard by the neighbors living quite a few miles away. But as she grew more accustomed to the routine, the cries turned silent on the outside. Inside, however, her soul cried for a mother who now lived in the skies above with the angels; her mind longed for the father figure that she had lost, a man who had lost himself in grief.

As she slowly began to piece together her father's abusive ways, she accepted it with a calm, strong heart. She endured the pain with piece and acceptance. There was nothing she could do to ease her father's suffering. Had she tried earlier in his new procedure of binge drinking, perhaps she might have had a chance. It would have only been a very slim chance, though. In a way, she thought of herself as a tragic heroine. Just as a reader might pity the protagonist, many who had learned of Lucille's story had shed their own tears or felt their hearts warm at the bravery displaced by a girl of such a young age.

How she came to find herself at Belle's, though, not a soul knew, but it was quite obvious that her feelings about her father most likely triggered on the dreadful decision.

* * *

><p>There was also another prostitute named Mary. She had dark chocolate hair that crawled down to her middle back. Her eyes were a slate-gray color. Although she had a waist that measured no less than twenty-eight inches, she was quite pretty for her age of thirty-five.<p>

Unlike Lucille, Marry had lived a very happy life. Her parents had sent her to the finest of schools and they had been a happy family. And then she got married to a successful banker named Allen. They never had any children, though they were content with each other's company. There was never anything wrong with her life.

Or so it seemed.

In reality, Mary loathed all the extra studying that she had been forced to perform when she was in school. When she was a child, there was never any time for her to play with dolls. Her parents considered it "a waste of time" since the activity took away valuable educating for Mary.

Mary's elder sister by three years, Victoria, had been the perfect daughter. Unlike Mary, Victoria enveloped herself with work whenever she could. She was the average over-achiever: never missing a day of school, receiving the highest marks in her class, studying hard, helping in the town, etc. Their parents had always favored Victoria more because of the hard work she would accomplish. As a result, they pushed Mary into becoming more like her sister. Therefore, she began to study all the time in order to win their parents' love and attempt to beat Victoria at her own game.

Of course, this arose various consequences. She never had any friends to gossip with or any beaux to make her blush. Headaches that soon turned into migraines kept her up quite late into the night; she believed that the excessive studying was to blame for these pounding pains.

However, some good did come out of this "competition". Her marks slowly inched up to the top of the class. She even began to help out in town.

Alas, it was never enough. Her parents would complain that she could still do more. And every time she helped out in the town, everyone would talk to her endlessly about her _sister._

And then there was Allen. Oh, how she loathed him! Yes, Allen loved her for some odd reason, but sadly, she did not return his strong affections. For how could she when her wedding had been the worst night of her life? Mary's mother and father had arranged the marriage, just to ensure that their daughter would not become an old maid. Although Allen was very sweet and caring, it would not do for her to have him as a permanent husband.

And Belle, somehow sensing her anger when they met God-knows-where, lured Mary into the life of a prostitute when she had just turned twenty.

Naturally, her parents instantly disowned her when they found out. How ashamed they were! Her parents would have rather had her as a spinster than a prostitute! The disgrace it marked on the family tree! It was not acceptable; therefore they claimed that they had no choice, but to discard her from the family.

To Mary, this was the happiest news she had ever received in her life! Finally, to be away from her perfect, snobby sister! And never again would she feel pressured by her vain parents! She was finally free.

Allen had filed for a divorce after he had found out. How sad and broken-hearted he had looked that day! He couldn't even steal a glance at her when the papers were signed. Though she never loved him, Mary felt a twinge of pity for the man. He had never been anything but the perfect gentleman to her, and this was how she was repaying him.

* * *

><p>Scarlett glanced at the clock. Oh, why did time have to by ever so slowly at the dullest times! She took her latest engagement ring out of her basque and placed it into the palm of her hand. Where had those young, care-free days gone? When was the last time Rhett had told Scarlett he loved her? It was much too depressing to ponder at the time. But it had all led to heartbreak anyway, so there was no need to-<p>

_Divorced._

How sour the word _still _sounded! But with Rhett gone, were they never to see each other again? Perhaps it would be better for the both of them that way…

* * *

><p>The papers had been signed on a rather dull, gray day. After eating a light breakfast—their last meal in each other's company—they headed off to the lawyer's office in silence. Whilst in the office, the three discussed the terms that were to be laid down.<p>

All of Rhett's money was to be transferred to a bank in Charleston; Scarlett was to be left on her own without his money, which she rather resented and therefore displayed quite a tantrum. Rhett could take the children wherever he desired so long as if Scarlett would give her consent; however, he could only keep custody of them for no more than one month's time. After agreeing on these terms—and many more—by their flourished signatures, the two bid farewell and went their separate ways.

Rhett had gone off to Charleston in order to be in the company of his mother and sister.

His mother had fallen quite ill. He sensed that her time was drawing near; therefore it was naturally acceptable that he wished to spend as much time with her as possible.

Rosemary, Rhett's younger sister, was a rather dull creature. Yes, she was the sweetest woman to be acquainted with, but never did she attend annual sewing meetings or ravish balls. Rhett and his sister had been very close, especially since their father had turned to become quite a drunken man. Perhaps that was why Rhett had fallen so much in love with Scarlett; just like Rosemary, she didn't feel the need to attend rather boring sewing meetings and gossip with old Southern bags.

Scarlett, on the other hand, had begun preparing for her new life as a prostitute. With the little money she had left, she had sent Prissy out to purchase new _eau de cologne _as well as order new dresses to be made. Although Scarlett would have enjoyed the envious expressions on the other women's faces, she did not feel that it would be appropriate to show off such wealth in a place like that.

* * *

><p>Silently, Scarlett counted the days. She had been divorced for exactly one month. Her new life as a prostitute had began two weeks after the dreadful papers had bared her signature. Of course, all of Atlanta had heard about it the minute she walked into the door on her first day of work.<p>

"Scarlett? A man named Robert has requested your company."

She spun around at the sound of Lucille's voice. Suddenly, she felt an overwhelming sense of pity squeezing her heart. Her motherly instincts had begun to kick in; more than anything she wanted to protect this child from that monstrous man. How very tired Lucille looked as well! Red-rimmed eyes and heavy bags were visibly clear even in the poor lighting. The girl didn't deserve this life, but nevertheless she seemed content enough. Scarlett forced a smile and thanked Lucille before meeting Robert at the bar.

Robert was tall and gangly, but when sitting appeared small and limp. His eyes were a dark blue hue when he was somber; when drunk, however, they seemed to swirl and morph into a vacant grey color. He resembled Rhett in the tiniest bit, but could never compare. Robert was one of her annual customers.

"Hello, dear." His words slurred off his tongue in a most unpleasant manner.

_No going back, not now…_

Scarlett sat down on his lap and placed her arms around his neck.

"When do you want to get started, darling?" She smiled widely and began fingering his shirt.

He smirked and roughly placed his lips on hers. She unwillingly pulled him closer.

And, before she knew it, Scarlett was lying in bed next to a man who wasn't—and never would be—Rhett.

* * *

><p><strong>Longest chapter I've ever written in any of my many FFs. I thought that it would be good to have some insight as to why these women would commit to such a job like this. I believe that I can relate a bit to Mary's situation of being pushed too hard to please everyone. <strong>

**I apologize if the writing style alternates from 20th-21st century a lot. I believe a much-needed break from this story will be good for me.  
><strong>


	6. Chapter 5

**I apologize for the delay. Writer's block and other distractions kept getting in the way.**

**Not my greatest work, but one of my longest.  
><strong>

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GWTW  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Chapter 5<p>

It was impossible for them to have ever been happy, wasn't it? Such happiness could not have been obtained by the two of them together, not by the way things were heading. Yes, in the earlier days, there had been a chance. But he had been right, as he always was. With Bonnie, there had always been one last sliver of hope. But after she left them, all of their chances had run out. There was—and could not be—any happy ending for them.

Scarlett poured herself another glass of brandy as the thoughts entered her mind.

There was something very calming to her about the idea that one could simply erase their memories just by consuming a large amount of alcohol. To succumb to its numbing power made her feel comfortable, almost as if slipping into a warm bed—her final resting bed, that is.

Perhaps that was why Rhett had gone out to Belle Watling's so often.

_Belle._

In a time gone past, Scarlett would cringe whenever she heard that name. Save for Melanie, every woman in town felt a rather sickening sensation in their stomach when the name was brought up. But now, she was only filled with gratitude whenever the name was spoken. Although she didn't deserve it, Belle had taken Scarlett into her care and treated her as an equal. Though they had not always been on the best of terms in the past, they seemed to get along very well now. Quite content with the other's company, both women were quite happy that things had worked out this way. Scarlett, especially, could never really properly repay Belle. Granted, she was very grateful for her new friend.

The unlimited supply of alcohol was also something to be quite thankful for.

Scarlett glanced at her surroundings. She was in Rhett's room—devil take her—and grew even more depressed as the minutes ticked by. The ticking seemed to be in synch with her heartbeat…

_Heartbeat._

_ The thudding of her heart…_

Suddenly, the memories reeled around in her head.

All of their kisses and embraces were still fresh; so fresh that if she closed her eyes, she could re-live the moment once again. That night on Aunt Pitty's porch where he had lightly trailed kisses along her wrist, and the tingling sensation that accompanied it; his arms strongly holding her before they escaped Atlanta; his proposal in Aunt Pitty's library, what with his arms fastened tightly around her waist as he kissed her like she had never been kissed before…

And how fresh those bitter memories were as well! Rhett being so indifferent when he and Bonnie returned; the way they had yelled at each other after Bonnie's accident; his arms forcing her out of bed to change for Ashley's birthday party; Rhett leaving her, turning his back on a woman he had fallen out of love with over the course of twelve years; the taste of salty tears on her tongue as she cried until her pillow that foggy morning; just the fact that he was gone forever haunted her in such a way that it had soon became difficult to breathe.

She reflected about her behavior during their mess of a marriage, and realized that she didn't blame Rhett for leaving. How frustrating it must have been to see her long for Ashley all those years, constantly dreaming that her knight in shining armor would whisk her away from the dark world. Not to mention his gradual decaying of his love for her as well. With each fight, there had been heated words thrown at each other and feelings always got hurt. They had been cold and cross with each other in the later stages of their marriage.

No wonder he had longed for Belle. How wonderful it must have been to have a woman who displayed her love for him so visibly! A woman with whom he could escape his cruel marriage…

She gasped. Why hadn't other such men used her for that very reason as well? Did that mean that Rhett had—_cheated—_on her?

Suddenly, she saw their marriage in a blur: Rhett leaving her side in the night during their honeymoon and returning in the morning, quite disheveled and unkempt; Rhett's frequent travels to Belle's saloon in the middle of the night. She had always suspected that he being unfaithful wouldn't have been surprising. So why did her blood turn cold _now _at the thought of her ex-husband with one of those whores?

_Because I thought that I didn't love him back then._

She sighed. Alas, it was true. If only Ashley-

_Ashley._

Her heart ached just thinking of him. She remembered him throwing himself at her just last month like she had done during a time long ago.

And Rhett casually watching the whole time, smirking at their affair.

Oh, if only she didn't love that man!

* * *

><p>After Melanie's funeral, Ashley had become a carcass of his former self. Long gone was the man of her childhood days. There was to be no trace left of their youthful days. That man had been lost after experiencing the horror of the War up-close. Like the foolish girl she had been, Scarlett had never truly realized this fact until Melly's coffin had been lowered into the ground. How very naïve she had been!<p>

After all the guests had left, Scarlett had looked around the house for Ashley and Beau to bid farewell. When she found Ashley, however, her heart sank at the sight before her.

For a brief moment, she thought that he was Rhett—or someone of a similar personality. His neat, golden hair was tousled and contained a few flecks of grey. Those mysterious, slate-grey eyes had turned dull and cold. Amber liquid dripped from his lips as he tipped back a bottle of bourbon. The contents entered his mouth and she watched in horror as he gulped it down nonchalantly. Suddenly, he seemed to notice her presence. As he sluggishly walked towards her, she backed away and tried to escape the house. But he was too quick for her, even in his drunken state. Within moments, his lips were on hers.

If she had still believed that she was in love with Ashley, Scarlett would have relished the kiss. However, those feelings had never existed and nor would they ever live inside her soul. She pushed him away as his lips attempted to pry open her mouth.

"Oh, Melly…" he groaned as he held onto her hand.

_Dear God…_ A flash of recognition hit her. She knew that lost, crazed expression. Why, Pa had looked that way after Mother's death. Had Rhett been like that as well after Bonnie's accident?

Naturally, after that little incident, she ran straight home. She was terrified by seeing such a ghost of an expression.

* * *

><p>How awful it was to think of Ashley as a drunk! Rhett she could understand, for her ex-husband had been quite unhappy all his life. But her darling Ashley? The man who had once been so full of life? Or perhaps he had always been a sad sort of human being. After all, what with Melly gone and the aftermath of the war…<p>

_No. _She couldn't think of that now.

Scarlett eyed Rhett's room. She hadn't even bothered to clean it up. Though it _did _appear to be the tiniest bit neater than the first time she had been in the room.

The floor had been partially swept, though dust and lint still lingered on the ground, and broken fragments of glass still littered the room. Those glaring stains of alcohol still covered the walls; there seemed to be a few more than the last time she checked, though.

Belle must have known that she stole the letter. How could she not? The woman had to have known, for she had kept it in this very room. But, being the good friend she was, Belle never mentioned it.

Or perhaps she had not noticed! Why, she could have simply just, spent the night with Rhett—oh, how the thought disturbed her so!—and only read it that one morning! Perhaps she had completely forgotten its existence!

Deciding that she had had enough alcohol for the night, Scarlett walked about the room. Her fingers lightly grazed over the furniture. She stopped short at the bed and cautiously fingered the sheets. The fabric felt thin and worn, almost as if they had been recently used…

She gasped as the thought entered her head. Perhaps Rhett had invited a whore into his room last month! Scarlett mentally scolded herself for letting such a thought disturb her.

Why should she care if he slept with other women? She was not any better herself. They were divorced, so he had the freedom to do whatever he desired. She had to stop caring. It wasn't healthy for the both of them. Loving him wouldn't do, not anymore. She had to move on with her life.

Smiling to herself, she walked out of the room, determined to fall in love with another man. Why, she didn't need Rhett at all! If all they did was make each other unhappy, it was wonderful that they got a divorce!

"Scarlett?"

The sound of Belle's voice broke her out of her reverie.

"Hello, Belle." She smiled, quite happy that Rhett was finally disappearing from her thoughts.

"I's gotten some letters fo' you. If I's not mistaken, there's one from your son."

Belle handed her the stack of letters. Indeed, on the very top was a letter addressed to her in Wade's spiky handwriting.

"Thank you, Belle. If you don't mind-"

"Oh, go and read your letters. I'll give you the night off. 'Spose you deserve it, anyways." She smiled and returned to her position behind the bar.

Scarlett entered her room and eagerly opened Wade's letter.

Ever since Rhett left them, Scarlett had been trying to make amends with her children. She found that Rhett had been right: they were _scared _of her; frightened, actually. Therefore, she tried her very best to spend more time with them. Although they were not a rather close family, all of them got along very well and Scarlett had begun to see that her children were quite happy.

Though they had been quite discouraged when she sent them off to Tara.

* * *

><p>"<em>But mother, I don't <em>want _to go to Tara!" Ella had whined. "I'd much rather stay here with you!"_

"_Oh, darling," Scarlett gathered her daughter in her arms and hugged her tightly. "I wish you could stay, but it won't do. Besides, Aunt Suellen might give you a new doll if you behave yourself."_

* * *

><p>"<em>Wade Hamilton-"<em>

"_I don't care if he's gone! What if he _does _come back? Have you ever thought of that, Mother?"_

"_Wade, if he does, I can handle him perfectly well on my own-"  
><em>

_"He left us! When he did, all you did was cry for months! Mother, suppose he does return. Will that cycle repeat once again?"_

* * *

><p>She pushed the memories away and began reading the letter.<p>

_Dear Mother,_

_Why didn't you tell us that you were to become a prostitute?_

_Wade_

Within moments of reading the letter, Scarlett fainted and fell heavily on the wooden floor.

* * *

><p><strong>Originally, I had planned to make this a filler chapter, but my mind had other ideas...<br>**

**Next installment will not be up for another two weeks.  
><strong>


	7. Chapter 6

**DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN GWTW  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Chapter 6<p>

Scarlett's senses were completely shut down: there were no sweet or rancid aromas permeating the air (as far as she could tell, anyway); her tongue was vaguely aware of the water that trickled down to her throat; the only sounds had been muffled as though cotton was lodged in her ears; her eyes only saw blackness; and only once in a while could she become aware of something soft touching her hand.

Every so often, she would awake for brief periods of time. Her mind fuzzily processed a multitude of blurred images: the faces of people she knew, but for the life of her, couldn't place at the time; a tiny flurry of fingers; plush, vibrant pillows and cushions; even a glimpse of medical supplies. No sooner had she gotten a glimpse of such images that they would suddenly diminish into blackness, and she would succumb into a state of unconsciousness once more.

On the occasion, she would catch a variety of sounds as well: an elderly man's voice—Dr. Meade, perhaps?—speaking of her "condition" and something about a "possible concussion"; fragments of a woman whispering soothing sentiments (was it Belle?); a crowd of young girls crying about an illness of some kind; and the weeping of—God forbid—two men!

One was broken, tearful; almost as if someone had been violently ripped from him. He sounded weak, vulnerable even. There was haunting tremor to his voice, almost as if the man had lost himself in the past…

. Her mind began to piece together an image of the first man. Yes, there was something very significant about him. He was someone whom she was not particularly fond of, yet still cared for. No, it was not one of her, erm, _clients_, but she had seen him at Belle's saloon quite a few times.

The other was soft and suave, a deep baritone whom was also weeping. She could tell that he was not one to readily display such emotions to others. He sounded as bleak and apologetic as Gerald did when Ellen passed away…

An image of this man pieced together rather quickly in her mind. Perhaps because she had thought of him so often? She had not seen him in Belle's saloon, but knew him well enough to say that he was no stranger in it. An emotion triggered as she placed this man. It was…anger, yet a twinge of longing accompanied it. Something about this man was a mystery to her. As to what that was, well, she couldn't ever know even if she tried to pry it out of him.

Scarlett was no fool. Even in her scattered mind, she knew that the two men were Ashley and Rhett. She would have been able to identify them anywhere; a small price to pay for once loving them both.

Well, she was still hopelessly in love with Rhett, but she would have to get over that eventually, yes?

When at last she awoke for more than a few seconds, Scarlett was immediately greeted by a mass of fire-red curls.

_Belle._

"Scarlett! Thank heavens you's finally woke up!"

Soon, the other girls were surrounding her as well.

"Scarlett! How are you feeling? We've all been worried sick!"

"We've made you a quilt!" A few girls excitedly pointed to a Confederate-themed quilt that was lying on top of her.

"Do you need anything?"

"A few clients of yours have called upon us. Surely you don't mind?"

She heard all their voices in a jumble, and hastily replied with short answers.

"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, there was no need to fuss about me so much! I am very well, though I admit my head _does _hurt a bit. And that's a lovely quilt; I quite like it. No, I do not need anything at the present moment, but a cold towel would be sufficient. And of course I don't, but do take care when dealing with them."

However, when the pity became too much for her, she snapped,

"God's nightgown! I wasn't out for very long, surely!"

Secretly, though, she rather liked the attention. She felt like the Southern Belle that she used to be. The fact that everyone was fussing over her like a newborn baby warmed her heart. It felt wonderful to be appreciated amongst people again. Though she had certainly not been lacking in attention with the Old Guard, it seemed to have been ages since people genuinely cared for her.

"Scarlett, you's was out fo' three days. We's all worried 'bout you." Belle replied, crimson reddening her cheeks.

At first, Scarlett mistook it for rouge, but then soon realized that Belle wasn't wearing any.

Suddenly, she began to redden as well. Why, Belle had never really cared for anyone—save for Rhett and the other girls. The two of them had finally grown a strong bond, but neither had fully acknowledged it out in the open. It had come on so slowly that neither had really known of it up until now. Yes, Belle had a right to be a bit embarrassed. How could she not be? After all, it was rather odd that they were now—_friends?—_despite their rivalry in the past.

Suddenly, the door slammed open. A man burst in, looking flustered—and a bit drunk, perhaps?

_Dear God…_

"Is she awake? I'll be damned if-," The man broke off as his eyes connected with hers.

There was something familiar—much too familiar—about him: broad shoulders, whiskey-tainted breath, a permanent drawl written on his lips…

No, no it couldn't be _him_! Surely it was just a hallucination!

But even Scarlett was not that dense. She knew her mind would not be playing tricks on her at such a time.

It was Rhett—she _had _heard his voice in her unconsciousness, had she not?—and he looked rather sickly. His usual swarthy complexion was now as white as a ghost. Those dark, probing orbs had lightened to a light smoky-grey color; they looked a bit like Ashley's, though they were not as dull as those familiar slate-grey ones. His raven hair was disheveled and hints of grey were beginning to show. Though he seemed to have restored the musculature he had lost due to the continuous alcohol binge, his perfect stature had deflated into a grimacing slouch.

And yet, he seemed to look more appealing to Scarlett than ever.

But then, all of her anger towards him came roaring back. Though she was still thoroughly depressed about the divorce, a lion of fury still ran through her blood. How dare he come and visit her _now, _just because of a silly little accident! She suddenly remembered those long, suffering nights that she had endured after he left; even the children had been strong enough to brave through it.

A jabbing headache ruptured as soon as she thought about the children. She remembered Wade's very brief letter before the world had turned black.

Her son—her _only _son—knew about her new occupation. Wade, whom she had a eventually found a real treasure, knew about her prostitution.

She felt sick. How ashamed he must be to have a mother such as her! And…what about Ella? Did she know? Surely, she wouldn't understand, but would she still loathe her mother all the same? She suddenly had a vision of her remaining two children turning against her in disgust, betrayal.

"Scarlett?"

She gasped. Rhett's voice broke her out of her reverie. So wrapped up had Scarlett been in her thoughts that she had completely forgotten Rhett's presence.

"My dear, no need to be so frightened." He lightly kissed her hand.

She was astonished. This man, it couldn't be Rhett. At last, not the Rhett she had known before he had left. This was the old Rhett, a man who mocked and infuriated her to no end. What had changed him? Why was he _here_?

_Oh._

She glanced at her surroundings. Unfortunately, she didn't find herself in the Peachtree Street mansion. No, for there were no ostentatious walls enclosing her. She wasn't lying in a feather bed and there were no velvet pillows propped beneath her head. Instead, crème-colored walls greeted her; the queen-sized bed was hard, and the pillow supporting her head was much too firm for her liking.

As it turned out, Wade had not been the only relation who had found out about her new occupation.

_Damn him._

"Rhett." She had meant it to sound venomous, but instead had come out rather hoarsely; almost as if she was pleading for him.

He chuckled.

"Finally calling on me now, Scarlett? I must say, I'm quite surprised."

Oh, how she loathed him! How dare he make a jeer about that past incident! Though, she had to admit: if she had called upon him, perhaps none of this would have happened. Bonnie might still be alive if they had gradually repaired their marriage. She would have gotten over her girlhood infatuation with Ashley sooner, and the whole fiasco at the mills might never have occurred. But, no matter, for there was no use in trying to change the past.

Instead of replying to Rhett, she turned to Belle and asked,

"Belle? Pray tell, what time is it?"

"Why, it's already half pas' noon! You's ought to get some res'. I'd don't know why Rhett's gotta come and disturb you's at such a time. Would you's like him to leave, Scarlett? I's be glad to kick him out fo' awhile."

Scarlett smiled at the thought. She knew Belle wouldn't ever "kick" Rhett out. He was much too good to Belle.

_If anything, _she thought to herself, _she would kick him out of this bedroom._

"No, Belle. Thank you, but I would like to speak to Rhett privately anyway."

"All's right, then. Call if you's need anything, you's hear?"

Scarlett nodded her consent and Belle ushered everyone but Rhett out of the room.

As soon as the door closed, Scarlett glared at Rhett.

"If you think for a minute that I'll _ever _have you as a customer, Rhett Butler, you can go rot in Halifax for all I care!"

He bit his lip, a smile spreading across his features.

"My dearest Scarlett, how I've missed your ignorant humor."

She felt an urge to slap the grin off his face. How could he tease her at such a time?! That damned mask of his! Why couldn't he even _attempt _to be civil for once?!

Suddenly, she felt weak. The lion of fury had finally been tamed. She was tired of…_this._ All she wanted now was a peaceful conversation. No barbed words, no screaming at the other in frustration, just quiet words being exchanged. Perhaps that was too much to ask (she _did _have quite the Irish tempter), but it was worth a try.

She took a deep breath to compose herself and simply stated,

"Rhett, we have much to discuss, darling."

* * *

><p><strong>Not very pleased with this chapter. Thinking about discontinuing this story, but I don't believe that I really have the heart to give it up.<br>**

**Also, I do not mean to copy Dixie's line in her most recent chapter of _Pleasant Distractions_. **

**Dixie: _She stopped short, swinging around and facing him with crackling eyes. "I don't care what you do or where you go. You can go to Halifax for all I care."_**

**MelodyOfSong: "If you think for a minute that I'll _ever _have you as a customer, Rhett Butler, you can go rot in Halifax for all I care!"**

**Reviews would be very helpful...Thank you much for reading!  
><strong>


	8. Chapter 7

**This chapter is...one of my favorites, but not one of my favorites at the same time...  
><strong>

**Mostly dialogue. My opinion, anyway.  
><strong>

**Just to let you know, it has not been thoroughly proofed (I've had a few computer mishaps), so there might be a few grammatical/spelling errors. Apologize in advance.  
><strong>

**Oh, and thank you for supporting my new story! Quite proud of that bit of work!  
><strong>

**And I do apologize for slow updates. To say that I'm a bit stressed is an understatement. But I digress.  
><strong>

**Enjoy! Reviews make me a happy camper!  
><strong>

**_Disclaimer: I do not own GWTW._  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Chapter 7<p>

"So, my pet, whatever is it that you so eagerly wish to discuss?"

Rhett was lounging on a nearby chaise, with a cigar set between his lips. The smoke permeated the air as it swirled about in the air currents.

It had been roughly about five minutes since Scarlett had made her statement. Truth be told, the words had stuck in her throat, and she could not gather the courage to utter them. A numbness had penetrated her voice box, freezing all nerve endings and in turn, forcing the gears in her head to stop turning. For some impeccable reason, she had forgotten about the hold Rhett had on her.

There was an air of tension flitting about the room, making it more suffocating by the minute. So many barbs wanted to be thrown, yet there were also so many passionate feelings sparking. It electrified the air, causing it to heat up and grow rather uncomfortable. The silence was hauntingly agonizing, perhaps even mystifying. Breaths were labored, stead, yet calculating the other's next move.

She could smell Rhett's cigar as the smoke lazily left his lips. How easily the process seemed to be! First, the lips lightly caressed the end. Then, the smoke briefly entered the mouth. Finally, a puff was exhaled into the air. The procedure was effortless, yet it seemed to make the time drag on even more so than ever.

Scarlett did not understand the fascination of cigars (she was not a _complete _Irish girl; the aroma was so very foul!), nor did she wish to experiment with them. However, she could not help but gaze mesmerizingly at the ease that Rhett smoked his cigar. It all looked so calming, so wonderfully calming. Other men were all cruel and bitter about their smoking. Rhett, on the other hand, was more graceful. Perhaps it was just his nature, but she saw it as an extension of his demeanor: the cigar was his blackened past, all buried inside of him; the smoke was his past being thrust away from him.

_Great balls of fire! I'm beginning to sound like Ashley!_

"Well?"

Scarlett jumped. His voice was muffled (due to the cigar in his mouth), but it scared her, somehow. There had been a hint of annoyance, and perhaps impatience. It was interpreted as the affair being a nuisance, a complete waste of time.

_I suppose he has much more enticing activities to be participating in. May the devil take him, then!_

"Oh, Rhett, I've got an awfully sore head. Let's not fight, darling."

As to be expected, the sugar-coating was all but dismissed by Rhett.

"Still a minx, aren't you? Don't use such endearments, my pet. It's not very becoming of you. And you know very well that I don't care for such sentimentalities."

"Oh, fiddle-dee-dee, Rhett Butler. Must you always-Oh!"

A throbbing had suddenly attacked her head. All she saw, _felt_, was pain, _excruciating _pain. It was a fire, raging intensely as time wore on. Even as she tried to place her hand over her forehead, the slight pressure made it sting. There was a shrill voice—was it her own?—screaming. Her vision was blurred by the tears that had welled up in her eyes. There had been a fleeting moment when she briefly wondered if the pain was much too serious for a concussion. As a result, a bit of hyperventilation ensued, wrapping its spiky claws around her lungs.

And then it stopped.

So suddenly, her head stopped throbbing. Her breathing had returned to normal. All that was left of the episode was the sweat on her brow.

With a start, she felt something rough press against her hair. Rhett's hand traveled down the mess of curls until it reached the nape of her neck. She gasped. His thumb was making tiny circles on her skin, causing goosebumps to form on her arms. Their faces were mere inches apart. His eyes bore into hers and scanned her body. A tingle ran down her spine as she detected a familiar emotion in his eyes:

Lust.

His warm breath was blowing a light breeze over her skin. Her breath hitched. It was all familiar, much too familiar, in fact. He was so close…

And then the spell was broken.

A wave of disappointment weighed down her heart but she dismissed it quickly. He swiftly walked back over to his abandoned cigar (he had most likely dropped it when the pain had started), and threw it into an ashtray.

"Damn you, Scarlett."

His back was turned to her, but she could see his body slightly shaking.

_Oh good Lord…_

It is quite an unusual affair to see a man cry. Men like Rhett seem to be so powerful and proud, yet people seldom remember that they are capable of other achingly raw emotions. Their views are distorted because of men's insistence that expressing such emotion would be uncharacteristic of them, like an act of cowardice.

It had been a rare occasion when Rhett showed such a raw emotion. Perhaps it was because he was…well, he _seemed _to be incapable of it. Even so, Scarlett could not recall any time when it had been so…_heartbreaking_…to witness such an emotion running its course. To think that _she _had caused him pain, once again…Oh, it was too much to bear!

"Rhett?"

He did not budge, not an inch.

"Rhett…"  
>Nothing.<p>

"Rhett, please…I'm sorry…"

He whirled around.

"You're still a child, aren't you, Scarlett?" A sad smile spread across his softened features.

_Child? _What on earth did he mean?

_Oh, why must he insist upon being an aggravating cad?!_

"I suppose you don't remember, then?"

She furrowed her brow in confusion.

"Of course not." He muttered, pouring himself a glass of brandy.

"If only you would stop rambling on in riddles, Rhett Butler-"

"Oh, my dear Scarlett, don't chastise me. I'm not in the mood for such chidings." He took a large swig of brandy.

"If I weren't a lady-"

"Which you don't seem to be, anymore."

Her blood turned into ice.

Not that it would ever be a surprise if Rhett declared such mean things, but that one statement…

He had gone _much _too far.

It looked as if he too was shocked by his horrid choice of words.

"Scarlett…"

"How dare you insinuate-"

"I did not mean for it to go that far…"

"You heartless _cad_…"

"Now, Scarlett-"

"I loathe you! You can go to Halifax for all I care!"

"Would you please let me-"

"No! Absolutely not! You've said quite enough already!"

"Damn it, Scarlett-"

"Don't you _dare _try turning this on me, Rhett Butler!"

"My dear…"

He gestured to the bed.

It was empty.

How on earth had she managed to escape the confines of her bed without even realizing it? Had the concussion affected her subconscious?

Taking her arm, Rhett steered Scarlett back to her bed.

"Rhett, I can manage perfectly fine on my own-"

"A gentleman does not allow a lady to fare on her own at such a time, my dear."

She blushed slightly and allowed him to pull back the covers for her. As she sat down, her arm brushed lightly against his thigh. In her present state, not even this tiny interaction could boost her spirits.

So much so for a "peaceful" conversation.

Would it _always_ be like this? Did their stubbornness _always _drive them to maddening arguments? How long could the cycle continue? Would it _ever _end?

As she lied back on the mattress, a prick formed on her skin. It was tiny, but yet strong enough for her to recognize. The feeling would not cease its attack. If anything, it grew and grew until it became an untamable monster.

It was restlessness.

Therefore, it was not surprising that Rhett jumped slightly when Scarlett launched herself out of bed (intentionally, this time around).

"My dear, you need to rest-"

"Oh, don't treat me like a ninny, Rhett. It's utterly uncomfortable to be confined, you know."

"You've no idea, my pet." He chuckled heartily as he took another swig of brandy.

"You know", he continued, "Belle will have my head if she catches you out of bed."

"She doesn't have to know, Rhett. Besides, I don't care if she does. She won't send me off to prison. Not now, anyway."

"True, my dear. But you do care, don't you, Scarlett?"

Damn it all, couldn't she do _anything_?!

He was right, after all. Belle _did _care for her greatly, and the compassion was mutual. Besides, without Belle, she would be utterly more miserable than she already was. Somehow, she had found light and comfort in a sporting house. God forgive her, but she had become so well acquainted with the other girls that they were almost like family to her. Suellen and Carreen had never been the most utmost comfort (though, Careen _had _been more pleasurable to be around), so in her mind, the second family was a make-up of sorts.

Running away and possibly getting herself more hurt would _not _be the way to repay Belle's unexpected—and perhaps reluctant—kindness.

"Rhett?"  
>"Yes, my dear?"<p>

"Would you mind…" She gestured to a nearby chair.

Without a word, he maneuvered it to where she was standing. Nodding slightly, she slumped down into it.

"Now, if you wouldn't mind explaining…"

"You're smart enough to figure it out yourself, my dear."

"You know very well that I cannot, Rhett."

"Well, if you would _think _about it-"

"Don't tell me you heard from those gossiping hens of the Old Guard-"

He threw his head back and laughed.

"Of course not! I had heard long before then."

"Then who-"

"Damn it, Scarlett, would you use your brain and _think_?!"

Scarlett gasped as another roll of pain suddenly began pounding her head. She could focus in on everything, this time: her blood-curling screams, the sweat pouring down her skin, Rhett's hands gently massaging her head, her fingernails digging into his strong arm, the endless thoughts that begged to be listened to (_Make it end, make it end, make it end…_), and the tears furiously cascading down her cheeks.

After what seemed like hours, it ended.

She gathered herself before straightening up.

"Oh, Rhett…I'm awfully sorry-"

"No need to apologize, my pet." He gave her a tiny smile.

_He really _can _be a gentleman…_

"Now Rhett, would you be so kind as to-"

"Your Aunt Pitty has quite the mouth, my dear."

Surely this could not be a recent discovery! He of all people should know that the woman had a tendency to blabber!

"Why of course she does! Everyone in Georgia probably knows that! Great balls of fire, Rhett Butler, what ever are you getting at?"

He remained silent, absently fiddling with his pocket watch.

And then, the answer arose.

She was not sure how—especially at her current state of mind—but Scarlett managed to piece it all together within mere moments.

Aunt Pitty had recently left Atlanta for some unknown reason (she had obtained this bit of knowledge from a recent customer whom was a Yankee journalist until he was betrothed to one of Atlanta's bickering hens). The old brat must have stopped by to visit Tara and sputtered everything out.

Scarlett distinctly remembered hiding places where she had shimmied herself into when she was a girl. They were perfect spots to eavesdrop on her elders' conversations. Since Wade was still—in essence—a child, he could have easily done the same thing.

Therefore, after hearing the dreadful news, he probably went to read a book or two (Wade had once confided to Scarlett that reading helped him whenever overwhelming emotions gripped him), and then found the courage write a few letters: one for her, one for Rhett, and (possibly) one for Belle.

What did it all mean, then? Would her son be—God forbid—_furious _with his mother for choosing such a lifestyle? After all, of her two children, Wade would better understand the situation what with all the reading he had done over the years.

There was still the mystery of Rhett's sudden appearance. It was a twisted web that interfered, throwing itself in her path.

Did he…Could he still…_care _for her?

But now was not the time to ponder over such love-sick thoughts.

"Rhett…If you would be so kind as to-" She gestured to the door, a bit breathless.

"Of course."

With a flourish, he quickly finished his brandy and set the now-empty glass on its tray. Before he turned the doorknob, Rhett turned around and said,

"Perhaps you aren't a _complete _child, Scarlett."

_Child._

What was the significance of that word?

_Child._

She racked her brain, but could not come up with anything.

_Child._

And then it clicked.

The mist, the heartbreak, the pity…They were all distinct memories; memories of regrets and denials, pleadings and refusals…

_Child._

The defeat reflected in those dark, penetrating orbs. A pitiful confession, so raw yet also…_enchanting_.

_Child._

The weight gained as a result of all the alcohol consumption in previous months. Reminders that she had not been his only bed companion.

_Child._

The words are muffled; almost as if the mist was clouding her thoughts in order to prevent more hurt.

They are harsh words, yet also mesmerizing.

_"My darling, you're such a child…"_

Perhaps he was—is—right. He always seems to be right.

"…_You think that by saying, `I'm sorry,' all the errors and hurts of years past can be remedied…"_

She couldn't have…did she unintentionally bring up the past once again?

"… _obliterated from the mind…"_

Dear God, she had! But that did not necessarily meant the bully was correct!

"…_all the poison drawn from old wounds…"_

Damn the man!

Oh, what had she done to him? She had lost him on that fateful day, hadn't she? There was no possible way for them to ever reconcile and talk of their past mistakes. They could never move forward from their pivot point.

_Unless…_

She opened her mouth to speak, but just as she did, he had already closed the door behind him.

* * *

><p><strong>Like I said, not my favorite, but still one of my better pieces of work. Quite long for me, I believe. Thank you for taking the time to read and review! ;)<br>**


	9. Chapter 8

**I am actually pretty comfortable with this chapter...  
><strong>

**Short chapter (forgive me!).  
><strong>

**And the POV changes from Scarlett to Rhett's kind of suddenly...Sorry for that as well!  
><strong>

**_Disclaimer: I do not own GWTW._  
><strong>

* * *

><p>Chapter 8<p>

The blood in Scarlett's ivory skin was running cold and—in turn—paling her fine complexion.

Various doctors had been called in (even some from other states) to examine Scarlett's head injury. None so far could comprehend as to why she was having intensifying migraines. The bitter medications and foul remedies were not curing her condition as expected.

After being consistently doted upon and comforted, Scarlett soon declared that she would attempt her own recovery in the confines of her room. Hopes of well-being were not promises, and reassurances were not certainties. The attention she had sought during a time long ago no longer held its familiar appeal to her. The prospect seemed childish, like the entirety of the past twenty-eight years.

For some reason unbeknownst to her, Scarlett found that reading little excerpts of novels seemed to ease the migraines ever so slightly. She could not "read the day away", but took the tiniest bit of pleasure in the daily activity. Perhaps the gesture reminded her of Wade and Melanie; both were people whom enjoyed books so much more than she and were two beloved souls who no longer resided in her life.

She was currently skimming through Victor Hugo's _Les Misérables_, which revoked a strand of a memory within her troubled head. The title itself warned of depression, but never had she thought it to viciously squeeze her heartstrings into a poultice.

There was one character in particular whom Scarlett could relate.

Her name was Fantine. She had turned to prostitution due to the increasing cost of Cosette's (her daughter) care; the little girl's guardians (Mousier and Madame Thénardier, a pair of innkeepers) had been requesting more and more money to keep Fantine's daughter healthy when—in reality—the only sickness the child was receiving was abuse from the innkeepers. Fantine sold two front teeth and cut off all her hair (a prospect which Scarlett detested and could not quite comprehend its necessity) in order to pay the debt.

One day, Fantine was harassed by a dandy named Bamatabois. She soon strikes him, and as a result got arrested by the police (despite all her protestations and pleads). The main protagonist, Jean Valjean, convinces the police officer to release her and instead takes her to a hospital after the scuffle. She dies a sudden death in the hospital.

When Scarlett thought of the new life she had carved out for herself, there were times when the doubt began to trickle in ever so slightly. _Les Misérables _had shown her what a horrible world that she—and so many others—resided in.

Could she—one day—become Fantine? Would she eventuallyfind it in herself to pick away her at her life in agony? If she grew broke, would she be forced to give up Wade and Ella to complete strangers who might potentially harm them?

Or could she overcome it? Did she have the strength to back out before things grew to become unhealthy? Would she somehow break free of the curse? Could she find herself a fresh start?

There was also another character that reminded Scarlett of her younger self.

Her name was Éponine. She was in love with a boy (whose name Scarlett could not remember), but the boy was in love with Cosette (whom is approximately eighteen years of age at the time).

As to be expected, Éponine reminded Scarlett of her own childish crush on Ashley. In both girls was the blind adoration for men whom would never quite return the same mutual feelings. Both men suffered and survived through battle(s) and/or war, as well as were wise and lost in dreams.

There was one scene, however, that stayed with Scarlett.

Éponine had taken a bullet for Marius (the name of the boy whom she was in love with) when a French soldier had aimed at him. The bullet had pierced through her hand and into her back. As she lied dying against Marius, Éponine begged him to place a single kiss upon her forehead when she had…passed on. Her last words were of a particular sort (for Scarlett, anyway).

_"And then, do you know, Monsieur Marius, I believe I was a little in love with you."_

What a rather peculiar choice of words! Surely the girl didn't believe that she had only been a little bit in love with Marius! Perhaps she had been delirious from death's hand. Yes, that must be why!

"After all, she couldn't have been thinking well what with blood spilling about." Scarlett pondered aloud in the silent room.

"What ever are you reading now, my pet?"

Scarlett rolled her eyes as the familiar drawl jeered at her.

"Fiddle-dee-dee, Rhett-"

"Still using that lovely sentence opener, hm? I had rather hoped you would grow out of it." He took the seat located across from her.

Scarlett had preferred to read whilst sitting in a straight-back armchair. It was no more than five feet away from her bed. The rose, silken covering eased her as she buried herself into it. Rhett had insisted upon visiting her on a daily basis, so he therefore had a darkie bring in a spare wooden chair for his own personal use. Between the chairs was a medium-sized, oval-shaped mahogany table.

"Come now, Scarlett. I truly am interested in anything that captures your attention." He gestured to the book.

Sighing, she pushed the book over to him. He examined it and smirked as he read the title.

"Such a sad tale, my dear. You ought to stay away from a book like this, Scarlett."

"I shall read whatever I please, Rhett Butler."

"I've never understood the fascination of the novel."

Gaping, Scarlett allowed her foggy brain to process the words he had spoken.

Though she had never been an avid reader, she had found herself enjoying the novel much more so than she originally thought. Though the writing style set her teeth on edge (for why ever was it necessary to use such big words and phrases?), Scarlett thoroughly enjoyed how the plots and roles of the characters intertwined with each other. It took an insightful outlook on life that she had never considered before.

"Why do you hate it, Rhett?" she asked, trying in vain to see through his impenetrable mask.

He poured himself a glass of brandy and shrugged.

"It's terribly depressing. Though the name _does _indicate a foreboding air, I hadn't expected…" He sighed and shook his head. "Never mind."

She decided not to question whatever confession he had almost uttered; her brain was much too clogged to think straight.

"Rhett…would you mind fetching me a glass of water?"

Nodding, he walked over to the pitcher (located on her bedside table) and filled a glass for her. When he returned, a look of worry was etched on his swarthy features.

"How are you feeling, Scarlett? And I don't want any fake smiles or proclamations of wellness. Yes, my dear," he laughed at her baffled expression. "I can still read you like a book. Some things never change."

"What does it matter to you?" she snapped.

"Because believe it or not, Scarlett, I still care for you."

How she loathed the words! They were too pitiful, and therefore reminded her of a blinding mist…

"Scarlett? Are you quite alright, my dear?"

Her reverie had chilled her blood. All Scarlett knew and felt was the cold sting of the metaphorical slap Rhett had just delivered to her. Its claws were unsheathed and hungry to devour her pride and dignity.

"My dear, you're looking awfully pale…"

What Rhett had not expected was the venom in Scarlett's blazing orbs. A fire had been started, and it would not cease its prowl until satisfactory response was gained.

He also did not expect one word—such a short, one-syllable word at that—to affect as much as the one she uttered did:

"Out."

"No need to be frivolous, my dear."

"You-"

"Before you continue on with that insult, I would like to point out that there's a rather pesky air about you at the present moment. Am I wrong in this assumption, my-"

Screaming profanities (most of which she had probably picked up from the other girls), Scarlett let the past several months of anger roll off her Irish tongue. The lividness grew to be a pool, and eventually a lake. Her curls were flying about her face as thought it was only a wisp of wind that had disheveled her hair. Beads of sweat were forming upon her brow as her fury grew.

With a crumbling resolve, Rhett placed a hand—which she decided to bite—over her mouth.

"Come now, Scarlett. Haven't you unleashed enough of your temper tantrum? You'll disturb all of Atlanta, my dear."

She refused to give in. The seconds turned to minutes. Eventually, the time wore on as her flailing gradually began to falter. After much struggling on Scarlett's part, she eventually stopped fidgeting. A look of resignation suddenly crossed her features.

"I'm awfully tired, Rhett…"

Rhett bit his tongue to refrain from releasing the chuckle he was holding in.

"I'm sure you are, my dear." He helped her out of her chair.

Gently placing his hand on her lower back, Rhett guided Scarlett back to her bed. Grumbling, she complied.

"Still such a-"

"Rhett, I'm in no mood for another argument."

He sighed.

"Very well, my dear."

-o-

As she slept, he glanced at the paperback on the table. Smirking, the memory of which Scarlett had had trouble remembering was replaying in his mind. He placed the book on her bedside table before exiting the lioness's chamber.

Perhaps Frank Kennedy should not have been killed…

* * *

><p><strong>I started writing this after I saw the Les Mis movie. That was two weeks ago...<br>**

**So, I haven't read the book, but I did a bit of research. I've seen the musical, and I'm terribly terribly _terribly _obsessed with it.  
><strong>

**And the closing sentence means something...hehe. I was going to have the memory revealed in this chapter, but decided against it at the last minute.  
><strong>

**I've been busy. Very very very busy. Which isn't a great excuse. But seriously, I have an Algebra I midterm coming up (as well as a regular Algebra I test), a 500-word essay (which even involves GWTW!), extra Spanish coming soon, the normal insecurity that comes in today's modern society, and more piling up on my stress level. So I apologize for all these late updates.  
><strong>

**Reviews are love(r)ly. - Points to anyone who names what the "love(r)ly" refers to! ;)**


	10. Chapter 9

**It's been one year, one month, and 24 days since I uploaded this. This story was my debut GWTW FF, and despite the criticism, I am proud to say that this is one of my own. It may not be one of my favorites, but nevertheless I am roughing through it. I never imagined it would take off like this. This story has 65 reviews, which means that there are approximately 6 reviews per chapter. That number itself shows that I have come a long way. With other FF Communities, I would get one or two reviews. The fact that I have the ability to get 6 per chapter, though...that is truly amazing. So I thank you, all of you, who have reviewed. I thank the haters, as well as the likers. You've no idea what your words have done.  
><strong>

**Now, as to this chapter, it's short. Very, very short. I apologize. But I will try to make it up to you by updating Downtara soon. **

_**Disclaimer: I do not own GWTW.**_

* * *

><p>Chapter 9<p>

When at last Scarlett was able to maneuver about, she nearly squealed with childish delight. How wonderful it was to breathe in the aroma of fresh air instead of the horrid smells of herbs and medications! What a relief it was to look up and see blue skies instead of the dull ceiling of her bedroom chambers! How marvelous and beautiful everything appeared to be! Things such as dusty bookshelves and century-old centerpieces seemed to glow with perfection.

With a start, she realized that she had yet to reply to Wade's letter. Though she had never been particularly sentimental, she knew that she owed it to her son. He had the right to know who his mother had turned into.

Rhett had mentioned that he had already written to Will and Suellen about her concussion. Being the elder of Scarlett's two children, Wade ought to be the one to receive the news from her firsthand, without any rumors or speculations to judge her character.

Biting her lip, Scarlett went off in search of a quill and parchment.

* * *

><p><em>My dearest Wade, <em>

_ I know that your Uncle Rhett had written to Uncle Will and Aunt Suellen about my condition. It's been so long, darling, that I cannot even begin to fathom how long I was confined in my bed chambers. Weeks, perhaps? Months, even? I've only just begun to have some freedom, but the doctors still insist upon having a chaperone if I am to travel out of doors (ridiculous, isn't it?)._

_ My dear boy, I know that you know about my new life. It gives me little pleasure to admit to it, but it is true. Yes, darling, your own mother has forever tarnished her reputation, as well as constructed her own family's fall in society. Your grandmother Ellen would be mortified. Perhaps she is shaking her head at me in Heaven as I write this letter. _

_ Wade, you've always been immensely more mature than other children of you age. This is why I am writing especially to you, darling. You must handle this with grace and dignity—which I've no doubt you will. You must show strength, just as you did on that night in Atlanta. Do you remember when Sherman marched through Atlanta? Remember how we went to grab your father's sword just before fleeing? You were so strong that day, darling. I need you to find that strength again, especially for Ella's sake._

_ Ella is young and naïve, just as all little girls are. She does not understand the horrors of the world, nor will she endure it very well without you. She needs guidance. You must step up and be her ally, brother, and father figure. You are young, Wade, but your mind is that of an adult. Ella will need you more than ever if—and, my dear boy, I shall dearly hope it does not result to this—I am never to see either of you again. _

_ Send my love and regards to the family and servants (if they will even accept these sentiments). Best of luck to you, darling. Godspeed._

_ With love,_

_ Mother_

* * *

><p>As she posts the letter, she is once again tempted to tear the thing to shreds. Wade is a child! What sort of mother would bestow such matters on a child's farail shoulders? Had she no values?<p>

But, Wade was strong. Had she not stated as much in her letter?

_Besides, _she thought to herself as she lowered her veiled head away from cold stares. _Who am I to judge the qualities of a good mother?_

_~o~_

"Wade? Where are you? There's a letter for you! It's from your Uncle Rhett!" Suellen eventually finds the boy in the library.

Wade glanced up from the book he was reading.

She sighed. The child was quiet, but she didn't mind a bit. It was comforting to have children as company, even if they did carry her sister's blood. It was especially hard to adjust to Ella, for along with Scarlett's blood, she also bore Frank's.

"Would you please set it down on the table, Aunt Suellen? I shall read it soon."

The woman smiled at the boy's kindness. He was very mature, perhaps the most mature child she had ever come across.

Nodding, she placed the letter on a nearby side table and retreated to her own sanctuary.

Wade grasped for the letter as soon as his aunt had left.

However, it was with great horror that he realized that the handwriting in the letter was not that of his Uncle.

Immediately, he felt rage engulf his being. His own mother would never have stooped so low had she only opened her eyes sooner! Couldn't she see that there were people who cared for her? How could she leave them? And—this thought always provoked a bit of selfish guilt—why had she left _him_?

Ella was a handful. She was the last bit of his old life before finding out about his mother. It was only with this sentiment that he did not treat her very harshly. All Wade had to do was keep the truth about their mother concealed for as long as possible.

He glared at the letter. How it tormented him! Part of him was tempted to throw it into the fireplace and watch the words turn to ashes. But curiosity nipped at him. Loathe as he was to admit it, he loved his mother. He did not love her unconditionally as he had loved his late aunt Melly, but loved her in the way that a dog loved his owner: loyal, but not obliged to take interest in his owner at certain times.

Sighing, he ripped open the letter. As he read it, his heart warmed at his mother's kind words. Not only was the letter heartwarming, though Wade found that his mother—a woman who did not often write letters, especially those of elegance and grace—had written the letter in a crisp nature. The words flowed effortlessly, almost too perfect to be the work of his mother. But he knew his mother's handwriting. The letter was clearly not forged by some lout that was trying to trick or tease him. No, the letter was most definitely his mother's. But how had her phrasing altered so drastically? Surely not from associating with…

He shuddered.

And then, clever as Wade was, the truth pieced together in an instant.

After Wade had developed a love of books, he began writing (secretly, of course). He found that the activity proved to be most satisfactory during horrid times. Whenever his mother had neglected him, he turned to quills and parchment. When Bonnie had been born, he had furiously scribbled dark thought before allowing his Uncle Rhett to dissuade him from such childish envy. He had even written a narrative after his Aunt Melly had passed on. Most of the language he used in these works were imitations of the words he had come across in his beloved books. This being stated, he assumed that his mother was reading.

Though the fact surprised him, it aroused suspicions. Why would his hard-as-nails mother suddenly delight at the sight of a novel? Wasn't she the one who always discouraged Wade's passion for reading? She had always proclaimed books and stories to be full of nonsense. _"Nothing in books is realistic, darling," _she'd say. _"_ _I don't see why you take so much pleasure in them."_

And if his theory proved to be correct, _why _would she suddenly develop an interest in books? Was she so downtrodden with herself and her family? Did she long for an escape from the world? Or was it something else entirely that encouraged her to read?

He sighed. There was only one way to obtain the answers he so desperately sought. The action was not a particularly pleasing one, but it had to be done, for there was no other choice.

Plopping down at the writing desk, Wade Hampton Hamilton picked up a new quill and addressed a letter to his mother.

* * *

><p><strong>Eh. Isn't the best (too cheesy, perhaps?), but I wanted to write it like this. I've had this penned for weeks, yet only typed it up last nightthis morning. I tried. Reviews are helpful. And thank you all, once again. xo  
><strong>


	11. Chapter 10

_I would have posted this sooner. But I didn't have any time to type.  
><em>

_And also, decided to be a d-bag and bunched this entire thing together so that it's all one big blurb. So I have to find out where my paragraphs are and press the Enter key more than I should be.  
><em>

_Disclaimer: I do not own GWTW._

* * *

><p>Chapter 10<p>

Scarlett was reading _Les Misérables_ in her bed when Rhett came into her room.

"My dear?"

She glanced up from the book.

"I do hope you have a good excuse for barging in here, Rhett Butler. I've no idea why you loathe this book so. It's perfectly wonderful—"

"Scarlett, it's a letter from Wade."

She froze. The blood in her veins turned to ice. She could feel the blood rushing out of her cheeks as the news sank in. She had almost completely forgotten about the letter she had written. How long ago had it been since she sent it? A few days? Weeks, perhaps? The days seemed to blur together when there wasn't much to do. She was oblivious to time; it was present, but she seldom paid attention to it.

The possible contents made her hesitate in opening it. Such fear had never ground itself in Scarlett before. She had been frightened when Sherman marched through Atlanta and when the Yankee had come to rob her, but these were different fears. These were fears of imminent death. The fear she experienced now was the fear of acceptance. She couldn't have cared less for the Old Guard's standards, but her reputation with her son meant much more to her. Would the reply be filled with reprimands and disgust? Or, being the angelic boy Wade was, would it provide comforting words and love? As time wore on, the latter seemed less and less likely.

Her reluctance must have shown, for Rhett chided her.

"Come now, Scarlett. Do you think Wade would have even bothered writing a letter to you if he despised you?"

She sighed.

"How can you read me so well, Rhett? I still can't understand it, after all these years."

He shrugged and asked for permission to smoke. After she had given her consent, he lit a cigar and answered her question.

"You've always been an open book, Scarlett. Even the empty-headed Ashley Wilkes could see through you."

She blushed at the mention of Ashley.

"Rhett—"

"And let's not forget about dear Miss Melly."

"God's nightgown, Rhett! If you won't be nice—"

"I am merely stating that I am not the only person whom can read you. Kindness is not exactly a factor in this conversation."

"But must you use such a tone with—Oh!" With a start, she pressed her hand to her forehead.

Rhett sighed before kneeling at her bedside.

"I thought the pain was getting better…" There was a glint in his eyes. Was it concern? Could it be?

She scoffed to rid her mind of such hopes.

"As did I, Rhett."

In truth, her head had been getting better, much better, in fact. If it did happen to hurt, it was only for a brief interval of time, and the intensity was not as great as previous pains. When she got rather angry or irritated, however, the pains returned rather ferociously.

As the pain subsided, Scarlett laid her head on her pillow.

"I'm sorry for that, Rhett. I don't know what gets into me these days. Such tiny things set my nerves on end!"

"Darling, there is no need to apologize—"

"Yes, there is, Rhett. For many things."

He sighed and handed her the letter.

"I'll leave you alone to read it."

"Thank you, Rhett." She smiled at him as he left the room.

Sighing, she tore open the letter. She smiled as she glanced over Wade's fine calligraphy. What an accomplished young man he would become! How proud Charles would be!

Unexpectedly, the thought of Charles made the back of her eyes sting. True, she had not—and never would have—loved him, but he had held a place in her heart. She had known him ever since she was a young girl. He was the father of her first child, as well as her first spouse. Melly loved him so, and she had not treated him as well as he deserved. Honey would have made him far happier.

Wiping away her tears, she began to read.

_My dearest mother, _

_I won't pretend that anything is right and just at such times. Even before this debacle, things were not truly right and just, were they, mother? We were just distracted in our own little world where the sun shone brightly and the grass looked the most vibrant shade of green. Such unhappiness was ignored as a storm cloud is ignored on a promising day. _

_Let me assure you, mother, that I will take Ella under my wing. She is the most darling of girls that I have known, and it makes me rather proud that she is my sister. I will protect her from the gossip and cruelty to the best of my ability. Though if I must say, mother, you demand a very great favor._

_ However, I am concerned about one thing. Or rather, not concerned, but curious. Your letter had been written in a much more formal manner than you usually express yourself in. I cannot help but inquire as to the possibility of you reading novels more often. After all, reading does wondrous things for the mind. Perhaps I am mistaken in this presumption, but I don't believe myself to be. _

_Please send a reply when suitable. _

_Your son,_

_ Wade Hampton Hamilton_

Why, how very bright her darling boy was! She had always known it, but never tended to acknowledge or cherish such things. There had "never been time"to focus on such trifle things when Atlanta was burning or when they were starving for food. Scarlett herself was unfamiliar with the giving of compliments as she was usually the one receiving them.

Or perhaps there _had_ been time. It was just that she never grasped the opportunity to be a doting mother. She had always scoffed at such ideas, and had never cared much for children until Bonnie came along. But if she had been kinder to them, it might have made a difference. Perhaps then her children would not have been so frightened of her.

"A pitiful excuse for a mother I am." She thought aloud.

"Don't judge yourself too harshly, Scarlett." Rhett had cracked open her door a crack unbeknownst to her.

"Rhett—"

"We won't talk of such notions now, darling. You're surely not in the mood for it. I gave you twenty minutes to read your letter. Is all well?"

She sighed and nodded her head.

"I'm not yet ready to reply to it, I'm afraid."

"Time is usually of the essence, but perhaps not in this case." He smiled before picking up her battered copy of _Les Misérables_.

"Still reading this?"

"I really don't know why you loathe it so, Rhett."

"It's dreadfully depressing, that's why. All of us have our own miseries. Why read a novel that is filled with them?"

She paused to think his words over.

"But it's most refreshing, though, to glimpse inside others' lives."

" 'Refreshing'? Enlighten me, I beg you!"

"Well, no one can read minds, Rhett."

"Not a soul on this planet, as far as I'm concerned, but it still doesn't explain how a novel can be considered 'refreshing'."

"It's _refreshing_, Rhett, to read a novel where there are many different characters whom come from many different backgrounds. You see the innocence of a thief, the anguish of a prostitute, and the love of a child. The book is like a black sheep: rare, rebellious, yet memorable, an image that stays with you."

A corner of his mouth curled upward in a smile.

"Point taken, my dear."

He leafed through the book.

"Is this Melly's copy?"

She glanced up in surprise at the mention of her late sister-in-law.

"Melly? What on Earth prompted you to think it belonged to Melly?"

"The Wilkes love to read, if I'm not mistaken—"

"That they do, but why would you assume it was Melly's and not, say…Dr. Meade's?"

He hesitated. Scarlett could see confliction flickering in his eyes. It danced for a few moments before resignation took its place.

"Do you remember the night Frank Kennedy was killed?"

She gulped and nodded. How could she ever live down that night? She would never forget it, as long as she walked the Earth. Never would she forget the terror gripping her heart, nor the dread that soon followed thereafter.

"Do you remember how Melly was consoling the lot of you women?"

"She was reading a book aloud…"

And then, as if a lightening bolt had struck her Scarlett pieced it all together. She knew there was a reason why certain passages sounded vaguely familiar. It also explained why Rhett had automatically assumed it was Melly's copy.

"How did you remember such a thing all these years, Rhett?"

He shrugged.

"The honorable Mrs. Ashley Wilkes—our own Miss Melly—reading such a depressing novel was extraordinary. She was the most selfless person I have ever met, as well as one of the happiest. Why would a woman of such character delight in a novel written by Hugo's hand?"

Scarlett pondered over this in her mind. But something—a fragment of a detail—was still not falling into place.

"But Rhett, how did you know she was reading to us? If I remember correctly, you had already left by the time she picked up the book…"

"Miss Melly and I had a little chat once you left. Do you remember that, my pet? You were shocked into silence for hours after I broke the news to you."

She nodded slightly. After Rhett had told her, he had walked away to leave her to grieve. And so she did. She stood in front of the fireplace for hours, staring into the flames, dumfounded. She had been mesmerized by the flames, curling and licking the kindling. How beautiful it looked, but how deadly as well. She remembered the opening of a door and Rhett murmuring something. The next thing she knew, Archie had taken her arm and steered her home; he told her that Mammy had left a few hours beforehand. When at last she was in the privacy of her bedroom did she allow the tears she had been holding in to cascade down her face.

And then, on the day of Frank's funeral, Rhett had made a proposal of marriage to her.

"I remember, Miss Melly was raving about how wonderful she thought the book was. She was trying to calm herself while her husband was in pain, I believe. That's one thing about Miss Melly that puts her above the rest. She always put others' happiness ahead of her own. Even when she herself was unhappy, she never showed it. She always had a genuine smile on her face to disguise any possible sadness of her own."

Scarlett's surprise at Rhett's inference must have shown, for he took one glance at her and chuckled.

"Really, Scarlett! She was a human being, wasn't she? Did you really expect her to have been happy all her life?"

She bit her tongue in frustration; frustration at herself for being so impassive all these years and frustration at Rhett for always being correct. Had she truly been so blind all this time? It didn't seem possible that she had ever loathed Melly's existence, but she had. She had been jealous of something she never loved, and had turned to Melly—sweet, simpering, innocent Melly—in hatred.

"I miss her terribly, Rhett. Truly, I do. Perhaps I did not always cherish her kindness as I should have, but I needed her more than I thought."

He nodded.

"Anyone who had the privilege of knowing her misses her, darling."

She smiled sadly before walking over to the writing desk.

"If you would please excuse me, Rhett. I've a letter to write to my son."

* * *

><p><em>I know Helen was asking about why in a couple chapters back, Rhett was thinking that Frank Kennedy should never have been murdered. Here is the reason. Melly read Les Mis to pass the time on the night of Frank's murder. Scarlett is now reading Les Mis. Rhett is, in a way, worried about Scarlett's well-being when reading a novel (for it could evoke memories of that night).<br>_

_Too much dialogue? I think so, most definitely. But I'm trying to keep up with everyone's updates, as well as writing other chapters for my other stories (Note: Downtara is being written)._

_Can you believe summer's almost over? I most certainly cannot believe it! I'm to be a high schooler in a matter of weeks, which is most daunting! I've already had my fair share of drama these past few months! I had thought I'd be updating more, but vacation and some other things have delayed me. I apologize for it all!_

_Reviews are much appreciated._


	12. Chapter 11

_Ahhh it's been awhile, I know, I know...I honestly thought I would have time this summer, but alas, other things have come up that I've had to attend to.  
><em>

_I do like this chapter a lot, actually. I like how it flows. Not sure how I did with grammar in this chapter, though...there might be a few errors, fair warning._

_Enjoy!_

**_Disclaimer: I do not own GWTW._**

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><p>Chapter 11<p>

The girl was no more than sixteen years of age.

All she did was cry. Rivulets had streamed down her face when she first arrived, and still continued to flood her room. The girl drowned in her depression; she was dreadfully unhappy, and being in such a predicament as she was in, none blamed the poor girl for confining herself in the safety of her bedroom. Though her surroundings were dark and drab, it was refreshing and bright compared to the darkness that now stained her being.

Everyone—even the drunkest of the patrons—could hear her miserable, pitiful sobs. She howled into her pillow, day after day, and never seemed to stop. No one attempted to stop her from doing so. She did not eat for an entire day, which worried Belle and the girls greatly. Such a young thing as her oughtn't to miss meals, being as thin as she already was! After much encouragement, they finally got the girl to eat some bread and cheese before she declared herself "full".

She would not work, and no one forced her to. Belle had made this very clear to Silvia when she had first arrived at her doorstep.

"_You haven't got any meat on ya anyway, darlin'! We can's all tell ya don't wanna. All's fine, honey, I swear." _

Silvia Roth was born into a happy family in Savannah. She had once been a very pretty girl. Growing up, she had everything a girl could ever want: lovely gowns, no siblings, a beautiful home, and plenty of food. Her life was perfect in the sense that she had everything. She was sheltered and spoiled, yet she was a very nice girl, unlike other girls whom had such luxuries. Never had she been a Southern Belle, but never was she inclined to obtain such a title. For her, actions were far more important to be judged on. She was neither conceited nor rude, for such attitudes were unnecessary. Why should one want to be remembered in such a negative light? It was something she could never wrap her head around, and never attempted—or wanted—to.

Her life turned for the worst when she was thirteen. She was completely unsuspecting of the horror that would catch up with her later in life, as she was meant to. Fate did not greet his clients with warnings or premonitions about future events, and Silvia was no special case to him.

As all young girls were meant to, she attended the local schoolhouse. One day, she met up with some other girls, and they all walked to school together, for it was the first day of the new school year. They made small talk, giggling about silly things, and gossiping about the events from the summer. Upon arriving at the school, all of the girls gasped and whispered at the sight before them.

In front of the school stood a group of boys. One in particular stood out. He was much taller than the boys surrounding him, though his companions did not pay him much mind. His complexion shone like honey, and his perfectly-combed chestnut hair gleamed in the bright sunlight. The crisp white dress shirt he wore fitted him most becomingly. The most astonishing characteristic of the boy was his eyes. They sparkled a deep, cobalt-blue, and reflected his youth. When he laughed, his eyes lighted up with a free, unrefined happiness, similar to that of a child's.

"Who is that boy over there?" Millie Saunders, a peppy redheaded girl, asked.

"I've never seen him before." Lillie North remarked. She twirled a blond curl around her finger. "He's rather attractive, is he not?"

"Hush! He might very well hear you!" Silvia blushed furiously.

All the girls laughed. Confused, Silvia questioned them about their reaction.

"Dear Silvia, you've never blushed so much in all your life, I daresay!" Miriam Alcerot, an older girl, teased.

"Oh, please! Don't be exaggerative, Miriam!" Mille scolded.

"How rude of you to forget the incident from this summer!" Lille chimed in. "I believe Silvia's cheeks were ready to burst!"

The girls burst into a fit of giggles. Silvia rolled her eyes, but soon joined in their merriment.

During the summer, Silvia and her friends were at a barbeque party. At one point, during luncheon, some older boys passed by them. One of them, a sixteen-year old named James Hathesbury, had winked at Silvia. Her cheeks had flushed rather deeply, and she turned her head down in modesty. He was rather good-looking, what with fine blonde hair and ocean-blue eyes with flecks of green in them. By the time she left, Silvia was as red as a tomato.

James Hathesbury was not just a simple boy. He was attractive, and extremely rich. Everything about him glorified his perfection. His family owned the infamous Maple Plantation. It had belonged to the Hathesburys since the late eighteenth century. His father's late father had purchased the land, and decided to build the most beautiful plantation in all of Savannah. The work consumed him until the end of his days, and by then, his only son was given the final product. Most astonishingly, James' father did not improve the plantation. Desperate to start a family, he married a wealthy woman whom had inherited a massive sum of money after her father's death, and soon James was born. The Hathesburys gloried in their wealth, for they had every reason in the world to be happy.

James was never of the turmoil going on within his family. All of his peers could see through the disguise, which only made him more cocky and oblivious to the matter. Instead, he focused on being the perfect son for his perfect parents, and tended to flirt a bit _too _much with girls his age. There were rumors flitting about whenever he picked up a new girl on his arm, but no one dared stop him. His family was well-known, and if a scandal broke out, their name would be tarnished forever. So, none of his peers attempted to address these rumors with him, for none wanted to see a friend become a broken shell.

Silvia was not a girl who received much attention, despite the fact that she was beautiful. Physically, she was not alluring whatsoever, what with her flat chest, slightly freckled complexion, dull hazel eyes, and chocolate-brown hair. Her heart, however, was made of pure gold, and all of her acquaintances were well-aware of this fact. She was the epitome of a beautiful mind, and, for her, that had always been enough. Her friends were far more attractive than her, but none had her gentle nature. Most males found in Silvia a confidante, but few saw her as much more than simply that, so it was most surprising when _James Hathesbury_ paid her that small bit of attention over the summer.

The schoolyard gradually began to fill up. Friends reunited, and began talking of their summers. Everyone talked of the latest scandals, despite the fact that they were much too young to know of such adult matters. But the topic that everyone was talking about was the mysterious new boy. None had seen him over the summer, and none knew what to expect from him. They were a bit wary of him, but also intrigued. All too soon, the school bell rang. The students hustled into the schoolhouse.

It was revealed at precisely eight o'clock that the boy was a new pupil. His name was Albert Henning. He and his family had recently moved to the area, and had not had any time to meet their neighbors. They were originally from New York.

As was to be expected, the fact that he was a Yankee in Savannah caused much criticism. The students began to throw disdainful looks towards their new peer. All who had been so desperate to find out his background now wanted Albert to disappear. The teacher hushed the class before disaster had the opportunity to strike.

Over the next few months, Albert was ignored. He was often teased by the other boys, and although the girls tended to be a bit nicer to him, it was all fakeness. He would sit alone under the shade of a sycamore tree, and once he finished his lunch (usually only consisting of an apple and some bread), he would head inside the shelter of the schoolhouse. There, he would read a novel, or study his verses.

Silvia was an incredibly empathetic person. She often stole glances at him, which were not out of complete boredom or repulsion. No, for she began to see him as a tortured soul, who was just rather unlucky to live in such a judgmental place. When he did not think anyone was looking, Albert would draw his knees up to his chest, and bury his head. He then rummaged through his pockets until he found his handkerchief. Once he took hold of it, he subtly brought it to his eyes, which were hidden from view, so that none of his peers saw him silently sobbing. And none of his peers did see, except for Silvia. She had a keen eye for small gestures, and it broke her heart to see him suffering so. Silvia longed to comfort him; he looked so completely alone, yet Silvia's friends held her back from talking to him.

"_He's a _Yankee_, Silvia!"_

"_My Pa says that all the Yankees are evil."  
>"Why, of course they are! My mother says that they are absolutely <em>foul_!"_

And what was the girl to say to all of this? She felt that she was bound to be loyal to her friends, for, without them, her life would be pointless! Never could she live without her friends! She was rather dependent on them for helping her with her dilemmas, and they depended on her for advice. It was a system, and it was necessary for it to be intact. Although she did not agree with her friends all of the time, she still obeyed them as if she was an underdog, which, she was.

Silvia was in the point of her life that all young people go through at least once. She was conflicted, both about her feelings and her reputation. Something about the boy intrigued her, but she could not quite place her finger on it at the time. Her heart and mind did not agree. As is usually the case, her mind stated the obvious: the boy was completely wrong for her, for he was a Yankee, and that's all there was to it. Yet, her heart yearned to get closer to him, and to understand him. It was a battle that raged within Silvia, which would eventually crescendo into a war.

_~o~_

One chilly day, Silva was walking home alone. It was the middle of November, and it was uncommonly cold for Georgians. There was a slight wind that rustled the trees. The clouds overheard were soft and wispy in a bright, blue sky, accompanied by the sun gleaming high.

Silvia soon found that her hands were cold. Shivering, she searched the pockets of her coat for her mittens. To her dismay, she could not find them. She must have left them at the schoolhouse, or dropped them during the walk. It was much too cold to turn back and search for them. Sighing, she stuffed her frozen hands into her pockets and continued to walk home.

Eventually, she reached the general store. It was a small shop owned by a little old man with kind eyes. He was ever so nice to everyone who came in, which was a rarity itself in Savannah. Inside were various sweets and snacks that beckoned children through the door. The aroma of sugar flowed out of the shop, and anyone who walked past could smell the pleasant fragrance. It was not a sickly sweetness, but rather a pleasant sweetness that was reminiscent of childhood and innocence.

Silvia waved to Mr. Parker, the owner of the general store. He waved back, and beckoned her inside. Smiling sadly, she shook her head. If it had not been so cold, she would have gladly retreated inside the warmth of the shop and bought herself a hot chocolate. The hot chocolate that Mr. Parker made was simply divine! It was velvety and warm, like silk.

She was about to continue home when she heard her name being called. Startled, she whirled around to find Albert standing a few feet behind her.

"Are these yours?" He held out her mittens.

She gasped and nodded. "Yes, thank you! My hands have been freezing!" Silvia gingerly took her mittens. "Where ever did you find them?"

Albert looked down at his feet for a moment before explaining. "Well…you see…I saw them slip out of your coat a few days ago."

Puzzled, Silvia questioned, "Why did you not give them back sooner, then?"

At this, Albert frowned. "Well, it's perfectly obvious, isn't it? You never talk to me, and your friends would be uncomfortable if I just walked up with your mittens…"

"You know I wouldn't have been rude to you or anything…" Silvia was beginning to grow agitated. "And if my friends were being rude, well…that's just their problem, Albert."

He smiled at her. "To be honest, Silvia, you're the nicest person at school. I see the pitiful looks you throw my way every day." The boy blushed, and shuffled his feet.

Silvia felt her cheeks flush as well. Had she been so obvious? She softened. "Well, I must get home. My mother will throw a fit if I get home after dark!" She turned to go.

"Silvia, wait!" Alert gently grasped her wrist. She colored slightly at the contact. "You should come inside the store. You're shivering."

Smiling at his concern, she shook her head. "No, I really must be getting home."

"Then I shall walk you home." He offered her his arm.

She felt her eyes water slightly. "Oh, Albert! Why, that's very kind of you—"

"I cannot possibly allow you to be all alone on such a day as this. What if you catch cold, or perhaps a deadly fever? I could _never _live with myself if you did, and I did not do a thing to stop it!"

Silvia chuckled. "You are too dramatic! I doubt I would contact such illnesses!"

"One never knows, Silvia." He quirked up a corner of his mouth.

Sighing, she relented, and allowed him to escort her home. The two chatted, and Silvia found herself rather enamored with Albert. She studied his every feature as he spoke. Up close, she saw that there was a speck of hazel in his sharp eyes. He talked with such vivid animation unlike anyone else she knew. Not only was he enthusiastic about every topic that they talked about, but he was openly honest and kind to her, which was refreshing as no one truly listened to her opinions.

When they at long last arrived at her house, Silvia's mother ushered them inside.

"Much too cold for this time of year…" she mumbled.

Flustered, both from the cold and her mother's fussing, Silvia made hasty introductions. Albert complimented their home with genuine warmth, and it won the heart of Silvia's mother. She asked him if he would like to stay for dinner. He politely declined, and headed home.

"He's a nice boy." Mrs. Roth commented, smiling at her daughter. She kissed her forehead. "Friend of yours, darling?"

Silvia smiled back, and nodded. "Yes, I think so, mother." She glanced out the window, and caught a glimpse of Albert walking down the street. "Yes, I think so…"

_~o~_

As Silvia reached the ripe young age of sixteen, she found herself completely in love with Albert. She experienced the same emotions that she had read about in novels. Her head swam with thoughts of Albert with a consistency that was, admittedly, a bit frightening. The heart in her breast beat ever so more whenever she set her eyes upon him. She even took a bit of extra care with her appearance nowadays; before she and Albert had begun to talk, never would Silvia Roth dab _eau de parfum _on her neck or apply a touch of rouge to her cheeks. How new and exciting such feelings were! So thoroughly convinced was she of her affections, and thus did not see how this would ultimately affect her in the near future.

Albert and Silvia had grown very close over the past few years. Over time, most of the children warmed up to Albert. Part of this influx of warmth was due to Silvia's constant praise of him and his abilities. More so, however, it was his kindness that had won everyone over. Soon, everyone grew accustomed to him, and he even developed a slight Southern twang after so much exposure to the accent. He became rather popular, and was respected in a way that was almost foreign to him.

The Christmas of 1875 was the beginning of the end for Silvia Roth.

The Roths had invited the Hennings over for Christmas dinner. The two families were not particularly close, but since their children insisted upon spending the holiday together, the families relented. There was a grand feast of smoked ham, buttery mashed potatoes with warm gravy, green beans doused with garlic sauce, thick beef stew, crisp roast duck, sweet plum pudding, bitter black coffee, creamy eggnog, fresh pears, and more. The two families laughed merrily, engaged in joyful conversation, and were soon immensely stuffed. All was well, and none expected that anything could ruin their holiday.

After dinner was through, the adults retreated; the women went through to the parlor, and the men stepped outside to enjoy a cigar. Albert and Silvia were left alone in the dining room.

Both were dressed up, and both looked much older than their sixteen years. Silvia wore a deep, forest-green dress with golden embroidery. The dress flattered her immensely, and though her corset was pulled rather tight, it still managed to accentuate her slight curves. Her hair was done up in an elegant chignon, and her slender neck was adorned with an obsidian necklace. On her wrist was a heavy, onyx bracelet. She radiated, and it did not remain unnoticed. Albert sported a navy-blue suit with a grey waistcoat and white dress shirt. The attire was similar to that of a businessman's. His hair was combed neatly, as per usual, and in the candlelight, flecks of gold and brown could be distinguished. In his waistcoat was his father's golden pocket watch. He looked rather dashing, and this as well did not remain unnoticed.

Feeling rather awkward to be left alone, neither said a word for quite some time. Both were quite at a loss of words, for both were rather nervous being alone together. They had spent time together, both at and outside of school. But since their respective families were with them, their private moment could be shattered in an instant. Both were expected to behave properly, and not stain their reputations. When at last the silence became unbearable, Albert stood and held his hand out to Silvia.

"Would you care to dance?" He bowed slightly, and glanced up at Silvia, his voice seeping with adoration.

She felt her heart quicken, and turned her head down in hopes that he would not see her cheeks burning. "There isn't any music—"

"So?" The boy smiled. "We don't really need any, do we?" There was a wicked, playful glint in his eyes.

Laughing, Silvia took his hand. The two waltzed as their parents had taught them. They imagined a string ensemble was set up in the corner, gracefully playing a lovely tune. In their minds, the dining room melted away and transformed into a glimmering ballroom. Other couples whirled around them, until only the two children were left.

When the waltz was over, their imaginary orchestra struck up another song. This time, it was a reel. The pair clapped and twirled as if others were amongst them. It was an endless fantasy one much too grand and enjoyable for Albert and Silvia. They never wanted it to end.

And so it continued. Dance after dance, the pair whirled and laughed. They were relishing in their imaginative freedom. During their fantasy, Albert knocked his head against a tiny green plant. The two suddenly awoke from their glorious dream, and glanced up at the plant. It had white berries and green fronds…

"Mistletoe." Albert smiled slightly. "The berries are supposed to be poisonous, you know?" He shook his head at the thought. "So strange, the tradition of kissing underneath a death trap during the happiest time of the year."

Silvia nodded. She felt her heart racing, and figured that he _must _have been able to hear it by now.

"So…" She glanced up at the plant. "Shall we continue the tradition?" she asked, rather quietly. She felt herself blush furiously. What a thing to say! Where had this boldness come from? The quiet, reserved Silvia that she thought she was would _never _have said anything so brash!

They were so close, yet she yearned to be even closer. She looked into his eyes, and detected the same longing gaze. Her heart thumped even harder.

"I think…" Albert caressed her cheek, softly, with his thumb. "It would not be a sin, but…the decision…ultimately lies with you, my dear Silvia." This he said between whispery breaths.

Silvia was only an inch shorter than him, so she had no trouble examining his features. In the dying candlelight, his hair looked much darker and thus, much thicker. His eyes smoldered, and she longed to quench the fire within them with her own. She could feel his breath, softly tickling her cheek. His lips were parted ever so slightly, and she wondered what it would be like to place her lips on top of his. Handsome, so very handsome, and she wanted to kiss him, desperately.

Oh God, what was happening to her? She could barely sort her thoughts into words! Her heart was racing, faster and faster, and she felt quite faint.

"I think," she replied, gently placing a hand on his chest, just over his heart, "Tradition ought to be kept." She smiled slightly, and—using her other hand—softly brushed a stray piece of hair out of his eyes.

He nodded slightly before bringing a hand to the back of her neck. She felt her nerves tingle with pleasure at the contact. They leaned forwards until their noses touched. Silvia closed her eyes gently, and vaguely heard Albert whisper her name before he captured her lips with his own.

The fire was instantaneous. Once their lips collided, a burning passion spread throughout their bodies. Somehow, whether it was pure instinct or surprise, the two folded in to each other as the kiss continued. When they broke apart at long last, the two looked at each other, breathless. Then, with an eagerness that neither of them knew existed in them, they kissed, again and again, letting themselves get lost. Her arms snaked around his neck, and her fingers got tangled in his hair. At this, he slightly moaned into her mouth. He wrapped his arms around her waist and ran his hands up and down the length of her back. She whimpered with pleasure as she felt the pressure of his fingers trailing up and down her back. They pressed closer and closer together, but never close enough. Their bodies conformed to each other, and seemed to fit like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Time stopped. All was bliss, pure bliss.

And then, suddenly, they were ripped apart by an unknown force. Everything, then, happened in a sickening slowness. Silvia looked up to see her father's enraged face. He was red with rage, and she could see a vein on the side of his forehead popping out. With evident contempt, he hurled her towards her mother. She looked down to see white finger marks on her wrist where her father had gripped her.

"Mother—" She began, breathless and blushing. "Nothing happened, Mother, I promise! We kissed, that's all—"

"You. Little…" Her mother raised her hand.

The strike that was delivered to Silvia's face drowned out her mother's last word. She did not feel shame, for that would have meant that she did not care for Albert. Instead, she felt a deep and sullen melancholy, for she knew then what was to happen to her.

Albert's parents, though a bit pale themselves, attempted to step in and save the girl, but both were ignored and banished from the Roth household for all of eternity. Eventually, they managed to skirt around the enraged parents, and take hold of Silvia's hand. But all too soon, Silvia's parents pushed the three Hennings out the door and held Silvia back. Silvia saw Albert cast one final, worried glance her way before the door slammed in his face.

She would never forget the expression on his face: the sadness and worry reflected in his eyes, and his cheeks were still rather red with excitement. He had looked at her with such care, such—dare she think it, _love—_and she had foolishly hoped that all would be well once again, for she could not bear the thought of abandoning him. So long as she knew that he loved her, she had hoped against all hope that everything would be alright.

How wrong she was.

"Get out of our sight." Her mother spat.

"Mother! Please, if you would let me explain—" Silvia attempted to take her mother's hand. Throwing her a disgusted look, Mrs. Roth flicked her daughter's fingers away from her.

"Listen to your mother, Silvia." Her father growled. "You are a _disgrace_ to this family, an utter _disgrace_, do you hear?" He would not meet her eyes. Instead, he scowled at the ground, which was a look he reserved for people he believed were below him.

Silvia was stunned, but not entirely surprised. She had expected as much when she began to have feelings for Albert. It had been surprising that they had not realized it sooner, though. Her parents were rather perceptive.

What had surprised her immensely was the harshness. Never had they talked to her with such disappointment and betrayal. She, in all her life, had never given them a reason to until now. Although she expected the rage, she did not expect that it would escalate to such a high intensity.

Without another word, Silvia turned and headed to her room. She felt the tears burning in her eyes, but she willed them away. Crying with her parents so nearby would only increase their rage, and make them think that they had won. She would not allow the latter to occur without going down with a fight of her own.

Silvia's parents had always wished for their daughter to enter a convent. For all of her childhood, they had fed this to Silvia, and Silvia had always been eager about it. When she was merely eight years of age, Silvia had already began to develop a genuine interest and passion in religion. Therefore, upon seeing her with Albert, they had been driven mad with rage. Their darling little daughter, the one they spoiled and toted on, kissing a boy was as horrifying as if she had lit their home on fire! They had taught her very early on that obedience was essential, and that a disobedient woman ought to be punished most severely. To them, children were wonderful gifts in the world. But their darling little girl had never hinted about having affections for anyone, especially a Yankee at that.

Silvia packed that night. Christmas night, of all nights! What ill fortune! She filled her trunk with only a few old dresses, and she left all her jewelry behind. All of her fine luxuries would hurt too much to look at, much less adorn. Silvia, no longer caring about her parents' stuffy rules, sneaked down to the library to steal an armful of books. She had always loved reading, but she was "forbidden" from engaging in too much of it. After all, it was incredibly _improper _for her to do so.

On Boxing Day, Silvia boarded an early train to Atlanta; she did not say farewell to anyone; not her parents, not her friends, not even Albert.

When she arrived, she walked around Atlanta. It had always been too big and pompous for her, unlike the small and quiet Savannah that she loved. But that had been part of the reason she had chosen to go there. If, for whatever reason, her parents wished to find her, it would be much harder for them to find her in the large city.

That night, while she was wandering about, Silvia tripped on a large pebble. She threw her arm out and grasped a nearby carriage. The horse whinnied in surprise, and she patted its back in pity. As she straightened, Silvia saw a woman with bright red hair poke her head out of the carriage.

From there on, she discovered Belle's establishment.

For many, countless days afterwards, Silvia considered what would have happened if she had gone to Albert. The two of them could live in peaceful bliss. His family would have taken her in, cared for her…

But it was still in Savannah, and that, ultimately, was where the problem lied. She could not show her face in a town where she would never be respected again. And even if the Hennings managed to keep her lodgings with them secret, someone would eventually find out. Shortly after, the news would spread like wildfire, and she would have to face her parents and their rage once again.

While she slept, Silvia often found herself dreaming of a glorious ballroom, and one rather dashing young man twirling her about on his arm…

* * *

><p><em>A bit sad, yes, but all of the people who come to Belle's tend to have sad stories.<br>_

_I tried to incorporate a few parallels between Scarlett and Silvia (green dresses, barbeque parties, etc). I hope they kind of worked?_

_Reviews are lovely, and much appreciated, whether positive and/or constructive. _


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